Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation
by Masamune Reforged
Summary: A chance meeting, an armed robbery, strong attraction, clashing personalities, sex, greed, conspiracy. Five young men will need to stick together to overcome the grisly metropolis and their own vices. 1x2 and 3x4 as main, but also 13x6, 1x4, 3x2 and more.
1. Page I: Fate Works at a 24'7 Store

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction  
By Masamune Reforged  
Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fonts!)  
Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.  
Summary: Sex, substances, sin, salvation. The less than exemplary lives of five young men in a sprawling, modern city and the events that bring them together as friends, allies, and lovers.

Song lyrics contained in :: ... :: marks

Before I start, I want to give a great big 'Thank You!' to my betareader ZaKai. Your support, as well as your writing, has been a great inspiration and help to me! Also thanks to Krisy C for slapping me around and making me realize how hard I'd need to work on this to make it any decent. Also a special thanks to Raine, Eliza Blaine, Sita Seraph, Blue Violet, Harmony, Hope of Dawn, and, last but certainly not least, Himiko Yuy. And everyone else who has been so supportive of me both now and a long time ago. God, I hope you guys are still out there somewhere reading this...

Finally, my thanks to you, the reader.

Page I: Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store  
A - "Fate is a Pack of Cigarettes"  
Heero's POV

"A pack of jacks please." The young blonde man standing directly in front of me in line said.

It was late at night in a 24/7 convenience store. Like the streets, the store was almost deserted. Counting myself and the cashier there were four.

"Who the fuck calls them jacks?"

I turned around. This skinny, sickly looking youth smirked, open-mouthed, from under a dirty black baseball hat. The peeling trim around the Gotham Kings logo showed it was a cheap Chinese bootleg. Chestnut brown bangs hung down into his face, tied into a braid in the back. His eyes were big, a combination of amethyst and indigo, and beautiful. Even though he wore a ratty gray coat, I could see he had a lithe body without an ounce of fat. The black shirt underneath and his black jeans were skin tight. His arms were thin. The jeans were dirty and ripped at the knees. Height-wise he was just a hair shorter than I. The boy was beautiful; but he was a bum, no doubt about it.

He was pretending to go through the stoner snacks. His fingers ran over Funions, Doritos and chocolate bars. But he didn't appear too interested in any of the junk foods.

What he had really come in for was clutched in his long, almost spidery, chalk white hands. It was a VHS cassette, no labels. He tried to hide it in the holes and tears in his dark gray overcoat. It was actually a women's coat, medium.

So I concluded that what he really came for was to check if there were any new pornos in the small, bent metal rack wedged in the bodega's back bowels, between where they kept the bleach and mops and the always open, unhinged women's bathroom door that didn't lock.

The bum wasn't smiling; his lip turned out in frustration, his eyes narrowed in disappointment. It seemed he hadn't found anything new, or, at least nothing suiting his tastes.

I turned back to see the blonde cringe at the comment. Clearly he was uncomfortable with saying anything more that might provoke the bum. The blonde held a twenty in a suede gloved hand, Maxine's for Men, around $90. The twenty was folded into his wallet in an awkward shape, almost triangular. His blonde hair was styled in a fashion that ironically resembled the bum's, but short in the back, well-shampooed golden locks gelled into thick bangs that stuck out and then drooped over his forehead. His eyes were blue, his teeth perfect and white. His face still had a layer of baby fat, but he was on the lean side as well. The blonde was also short, half a head below even me. The wealthy youth had a face that expressed everything he was thinking. Right now he looked just a little bit hurt or agitated by the bum's words.

The blonde turned back to the cashier, a forgettable looking youth. The rich blonde repeated, clarifying, "A pack of jacks please. Benson and Hedges, 100s. Menthol if you have them."

I turned around again and continued to stare at the long haired bum. Now he was restlessly shifting from one foot to his other, waiting for the blonde to pay for his cigarettes. His eyes were expressive, hungry. They roved over the walls of the store. Irritated, jittery, almost expecting something from the piss-stained peeling paint or rattling heating vents. Anywhere. I couldn't tell if he was a drifter or homeless, but certainly no older than I, though completely on the opposite end of luck. The right hand in my overcoat pocket instinctively released the normally tight grip I always keep on my pistol. It moved to my pants' pocket, squeezing and crumpling the paper tickets inside.

"We're out of Bensons," The cashier answered.

The sound of music, bad, loud music, started from outside. The bum noticed too. It was techno or House Metal or whatever they call the crap. The bum strained his eyes; squinted those captivating violet eyes, trying to catch whatever was making all the noise out on the dark city streets. I looked out the store window as well. There were no headlights or any sign of a car approaching.

I figured that I shouldn't jump to any conclusions about this stranger. I trust my instinct and judgment more than anything or anybody else in this world. If he was renting a porno tape, he obviously had a place of his own, and money to blow on trivial shit. But he wore shoddy shoes; torn, dirty jeans and I could count the numerous holes in his coat. Ten. I just kept looking at him. He was like the combination of a car accident and a male model. I love car accidents.

"Would you mind checking again?" The blonde was persistent, but still polite. "They usually ship at least three cartons every Saturday." It was Wednesday, December 17th. 1:49 AM. "Aziz, the owner, puts them over in that corner. No, the other one, under the condoms. He knows I'm just about the only one that buys them."

"Sorry, we're out." The cashier insisted.

"Listen," An edge of desperation wiled its way into the blonde's words. "I know those cigarettes are back there. Here's your 8.10 and keep the change. Just go get them, ok?" The polite tone was gone.

The violet-eyed beauty noticed my staring, or more likely, finally got tired of my staring. He faced me dead-on, snapping, "What's your problem?"

"My problem? I'm a chronic gambler. I'm a hired criminal. I'm a depraved sadist. What's yours? My name is Heero Yuy. What's yours? I also have the problem of uncontrollably wanting to take you back to my place so I can tie you to my bed and pour scalding hot wax all over slightly oozing cuts and fuck your brains out while I lick the blood off your beautiful face."

I smiled at him.

The young tramp's mouth went slightly agape. There was a total silence, save for bass outside. The conversation behind me had stopped. I had the feeling I was being stared at intently. The blonde. The cashier. Their attention pressed in on me and I realized... I had just said that out loud?

I turned around to face the two strangers. The blonde was aghast. The cashier made the kind of face a young kid does after his mother use a swear word.

The music was gone. Or...

The entrancing young bum made his way over to me, steps falling loudly in the smothering silence of the store.

The blonde turned his back on us. He cleared his throat righteously, like an announcement that he wanted nothing to do with either of us. He went back to bitching about his "jacks" to the cashier.

The door opened, the little bell jingling.

::Allein - was hast du bloß aus mir gemacht  
Allein - wo warst du nur in dieser Nacht  
Allein - was hat der Fremde dir getan::

The music suddenly blared again, much louder now, pointlessly loud. Over 100 decibels of god awful ruckus. I glared at the source, as did the blonde and the cashier. A tall figure in a hooded sweatshirt carried the biggest, bulkiest boombox I had ever seen. A wall of flaxen hair masked all of his face from my view, hiding his identity from all eyes in the store, even that of the mechanical security camera. The camera was perched over the refrigerators that were stuffed with overpriced beer for the underage youth. It was an old outdated model from Valiant Securities.

Then without warning, the bum's hand reached into my front left pants pocket, where my hand still lingered, clutching not my gun, but the wad of Lotto tickets and Scratch Games. I couldn't stop playing them. The hand was warm and calloused. I could smell the dirt on him, the alcohol, Leeds vodka, the last thing he ate, pizza, and... and semen...on his unwashed hands. The devil with amethyst eyes. They seared into me. They burned with lust.

::Hast mich im Stich gelassenbist mit ihm durch gebrannt

Hast mich im Stich gelassenbist mit ihm durch gebrannt::

The cashier was yelling at the boombox guy to turn the music off. The blonde was yelling at the cashier about his cigarettes.

:: Hast mich im Stich gelassenbist mit ihm durch gebrannt::

The beautiful tramp pushed up close to me. A bony finger, stuffed into my pants, traced a line from my hand up my wrist, sending the tiny brown hairs standing on end. He cocked his neck, looking up into my face.

Just loud enough for me to hear over the music, just soft enough for nobody else to, he asked, "You willing to pay for it?"

I had no clue what he was... Oh...

:: Hast mich im Stich gelassenbist mit ihm durch gebrannt::

The hooded boombox guy ignored the cashier. The blonde began to yell louder and louder, his face flushing red. Mayhem. There was usually nobody in this store at this time of night on a weekday.

An amethyst eye winked at me, but the light indigo orbs harbored a serious, professional hardness. A pierced tongue with a centimeter-wide silver barbell suggestively flicked a piece of gum over his lips and around the insides of a slightly open mouth. He chewed loudly and I could almost taste it too. Lemon flavor... When had he gotten the gum? He hadn't been chewing any a moment before.

I wasn't sure what to say.

::Allein - du bist für ihn wie eine Nutte::

Cut and burn him while I thrust like a piston into his ass?

:: Allein - ich will jetzt nur noch dich ::

He was going to let me do those things to him... for some money?

"So, what'll it be? You still interested?"

He was no cop. He was the real deal. I was shocked that I had actually openly proposed anything like that to anyone, and doubly struck by the positive response. I gazed into his eyes for just a moment, just wanting to do that for. But tranquility lasted for only a moment, and the urge to do more welled up like a demon.

::Allein - komm bitte wieder zurück -rück -rück -rück -rück –rück::

I looked away, answered softly, "Yeah."

"You got money?"

::Eines Tages find ich dich auf der Straße liegen,::

I was about to answer. Crazily, for no logical reason or sensible cause, I was about to tell him that I'd pay anything. Well, there was a reason… It was about 7 inches long now and the tramp was teasing its tip with the hand he had in my front pocket. I'd pay anything.

The music seemed far away, the shouts of the rich blonde and the cashier as well.

::Mit nem Messer in der Brust

Und in mir weckt sich der Frust::

Anything.

"YOU HAVE TO TURN THAT THING OFF!!!"

::Ich heule Tage lang::

"SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!!!"

::Denn jetzt bin ich FÜR IMMER A L L E I N !!!!!!!::

The tramp blew a large, yellow bubble, popping the gum over the top of his lip. He winked.

"HOLY SHI----"

Somehow I'd become struck horribly oblivious of the ensuing danger around me. The blonde stepped backwards onto my foot, knocking into me. I spun away, stumbling back, torn from the beautiful stranger. The jumble of lotto tickets spilled out of my pocket as my right arm shot out to help stabilize and prevent me from falling over.

I whipped around.

The cashier was afflicted with terror, shaking. The boombox was now sitting on the ground in front of the doors, the only entrance or exit. The blonde cursed and froze like morning dew to the winter wind.

The boombox man had a mask on, covering the other side of his face. His eyes were green, glued on me, the blonde and the beautiful tramp. He clutched a pistol in his left hand. Berretta, 10 shots, 9mm, semi-automatic, all black

Where is my gun?

How could I have been caught off guard?

I twitched towards my overcoat's folds.

"Don't," A firm command.

Click, the sound of a gun's safety being removed.

"Fuck," The beautiful, monstrous, purple-eyed youth with the long chestnut braid behind me.

"Hn," Me, Heero Yuy, the best there is, one-upped by some random burglar. What else could I say?

-end "Fate is a Pack of Cigarettes" Part A of Page I in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation (and how these four s words are intertwined)

Next: "Fate is an Armed Robbery"

ID Notes:

As this is an AU, you will notice that the characters from Gundam Wing are portrayed differently. Being an AU, they wouldn't have grown up in a world with mobile suits, space colonies and lots of things that shaped their personalities into what you saw in Gundam Wing. OOC? Well, yes and no, since they're not quite the same characters from the anime. More on this at my homepage.

Reviews are incredibly appreciated!

But for now some quick Identification Notes, obviously you'll learn a lot more about the characters as the story progresses.

Heero: See his quote.

Duo: Poor, mischievous youth.

Quatre: Wealthy young businessman.

Cashier: Um, this guy is a nobody. He's not even going to have a name

Trowa: Yes, the guy who entered at the end is Trowa. His situation speaks for itself.


	2. IB: Fate is an Armed Robbery

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fonts!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part B of "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store" Page I in the s4 arc.

"Fate is an Armed Robbery"

Quatre's POV

The tall gunman silenced the blaring stereo with a swift kick. I could only see one eye peeking out from a hole in his mask because a ludicrous wall of light brown hair masked the other jade orb. The crook was fully focused on the three of us; myself, the gutter trash with long hair and the whack job Japanese. No, I don't usually keep company of this kind.

Almost as an afterthought, the crook ordered the cashier, "Lock the door."

I shifted away from the Japanese. He looked to be Japanese, but his blue eyes suggested mixed race. I didn't want to be close to that one, the one in the spotless black suit. Something malicious and primitive was fuming from every pore of his body. I remembered what he'd said earlier and weighed my hazards. Hadn't he said he was a freelance crook, among other things? Could this second crook, the one calmly pointing a gun at me, be the lesser of two evils?

The cashier, that idiotic, bumbling waste, had been standing behind the counter like a statue; but as he walked to the door, he began to shake like a poor tree with Parkinson's. "Th-th-th-the key's under th-the m-mat." He was scared stupid, not like he'd had much wit to begin with.

Behind me the piece of gutter trash chewed his gum with smacking lips. This one had long, chestnut brown hair, tight and tattered clothes and smelled like crap. I glared at him as he snapped the gum in his mouth. He had a wide smirk on his face and his eyes seemed to dance.

"Get it and lock the door," The crook commanded the cashier. There was such calm in the his tone. How was everyone so calm?

The cashier did and took a minute to seal the entrance with trembling hands. The crook waited patiently. He pointedly aimed the gun at one hostage, then another, then another, emphasizing his control.

"Now, go over there, next to the rest. No sudden movements." The crook waved the cashier over in our direction. He wasn't smiling. His voice was monotone, but his eyes seemed sad. //He doesn't want to be doing this// Why did he do it?

My gaze landed on the counter, the barrier. Life was unfair; all of this trouble and all I had wanted was a smoke…

"You," From under the mask's material I could see a frown form. The crook's eye narrowed, but now that we were all clustered together, I couldn't tell at whom. I prayed it wasn't me.

"You're familiar… have I seen you before?" The gunman asked.

My heart began to beat faster. Had I been recognized? The only son to the Winner fortune, I had been in magazines and newspapers in the past. I prayed that this crook was of the kind that didn't read often, and by that I mean the majority of the city's lower crust...

A dry lump formed in my throat and I didn't have the power to swallow it down. I wasn't frightened by having a gun pointed at me, or at the prospect of being robbed or even losing my money. This stranger, this green eyed thief, he didn't scare me. But being singled out; that was what scared me. Even though the people around me were strangers and lowlifes, I didn't want to have to deal with...

//'You couldn't possibly be... _the_ Winner heir?!'. 'Winner's only son.' 'Oh! From the Winner family.' Always remembered only as Father's son//

...with that...

"You in the black suit, don't I know you from somewhere?" The crook asked again.

"Hn, it's possible," The brown haired whack job said sullenly. "Though I have no idea who you might be."

I heaved a heavy sigh of relief. The dryness in my throat, the nic tick, remained. I still couldn't swallow it down. At least I had avoided being identified so far.

I was stuck facing the mocking cashier's booth, right next to the entrance of the store. It was full of tabloids, lotto tickets and racks of random junkfood, all of the crap the bottom feeders wasted their welfare checks on. Somewhere behind it were my cigarettes.

My foot began tapping. Tap-tap. I searched the counter, then all around it and on the floor. It was the cashier's fucking fault I was in this situation. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

//Need your fix don't ya?//

Oh yeah, wondering about that voice? Just ignore him.

//Ignore me? Then they should ignore _you_//

Honestly, I don't know where he came from.

//Hahaha//

How fucking hard could it be to get a goddamn pack of cigarettes?

//You're pathetic//

_Ignore him!_

Tap-tap.

"You in the back, in the gray," The robber was tranquil and almost polite in his tone. He kept his weapon trained on the Japanese whack job while talking to the gutter-trash. "Empty his pockets, all of it. Nice and easy. Don't leave anything in there." The gunman patiently watched the gutter-trash rummage through the Japanese man's suit coat and pants. Tap-tap-tap.

I kept searching the counter top. I couldn't stop tapping and now I was chewing the bottom of my lip. Tap-tap. I needed that fucking cigarette!

//Baby wants his bottle?//

I couldn't stand it, or stop it.

The vagrant began to dump the things he found onto the floor: some spare change, a pair of car keys, lotto tickets and an envelope. Then he paused in his search, whispering in a barely audible hush, "Christ! Why didn't you use this thing?"

Tap-tap-tap. Some crumpled up papers fluttered to the floor.

Just a smoke...

//Baby Quatwa wan' his bottle? Baby gonna cwy//

"Cuz you were distracting me," The Japanese growled back.

//Baby wanny mommy. But... you- //

STOP IT!

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-t

"What are you looking over there for?" Now the crook was addressing me.

//You're a bad, dirty little boy, Quatre Winner//

I licked my lips. "Cigarettes," I spat. "I need a fucking smoke."

The crook cocked his head at me; as if it would help him get the proper perspective to figure out what I was all about. It reminded me of a dog.

//Charming as always. You make such a great first impression//

Clunk. The vagrant threw a heavy looking pistol onto the floor, the noise making me jump slightly. I heard a hiss of breath and a soft curse from the Japanese.

Tap-tap-tap. I had a huge report on the de Sand account due in the morning… I just needed a pack or two and I'd be set to go. Just a fucking pack…

The crook, to the Japanese, "You some kind of cop?" Tap-tap-tap.

His reply was a, "No."

Tap-tap.

Dad had been waiting half of his life for the de Sand account to land. I had been shocked he'd given such a huge task to me.

//Because you certainly don't deserve it//

Tap.

//Because he knows you're a failure of a son//

"Kick it over here."

Tap-tap. The gun slid over the skuzzy linoleum. Tap-

"Stop that," The crook told me.

I should have stopped, but I didn't. I rolled my eyes at him and went back to looking around the counter area. Tap-tap-tap.

//That's right//

Tap-tap-tap.

"What's your problem? You want me to put some lead in that leg?"

//How about a crack across the jaw? Or maybe a spanking with the belt?//

"I said I need a fucking smoke!" I cursed loudly.

The vagrant muttered something about crazy, spoiled rich kids. He was pissing me off too.

//And of course he's right you know//

Tap-tap-tap. "I got caught in a late meeting and just ate. I always have a smoke after I eat."

"Dude, shut up." That cashier... I swear I could kill him.

//He at least earns his pay//

The tall masked crook gave a genuine, though soft, laugh. I hadn't thought he had it in him. He had been so serious a moment before.

He was cracking a grin behind his mask as he told the cashier, "Go get him his precious smokes. And grab me as many vanilla Dutchmasters and lighters as you can, and a pack of Swisher Sweets too. Alright? No funny stuff."

I swallowed hard. The crook was carefully keeping an eye on the bumbling cashier and his hostages. Somehow my irritated throat was able to croak, "Make sure they're Benson & Hedges, menthols if you have them."

"Holy fucking cow, you are the fuckin' most arrogant little shit ever," The long haired vagrant was gaping at me. I reminded myself that anyone smelling as bad as he did didn't have an opinion that mattered.

//But he's right//

"You got no street smarts under that blonde mop of yours?" The gutter trash asked.

//Right again//

"Fuck you," I was in no mood for lip from a delinquent.

"Stop that," The lanky gunman barked. "Start emptying your pockets, everything onto the floor. – Except you!" He leveled the pistol sight dead between the eyes of the Japanese youth, scowling cobalt eyes… "You hang tight and don't move a muscle. And if you're not a cop, what are you?"

"H-here," The cashier turned and held up...

! My cigarettes! The golden painted box, the ornate insignia in the dead center, the health warnings in stark, strong black ink. I tried to never read them. I was elated, like a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. Despite the situation, I smiled and held out my hands like a child on a Christmas morning.

The cashier had certainly taken long enough! I _knew_ they were in stock!

//We each know our poison best//

He unceremoniously tossed a pack over. I began to tear into the covering, hungrily scraping the impeding plastic away.

//Like a rabid mongrel on the street//

"Now start emptying the register into a bag, triple plastic, darkest color you got," The crook said to the cashier. He then turned back to the Japanese man, again asking, "So, you a cop or what?"

"Two working stiffs don't really need to pry into each other's jobs, do they?" The Asian wacko responded bizarrely. He was nodding his head toward the far corner of the store, the beer and soda refrigerators. "Couldn't tell you much else really, if you understand me?"

For a minute I didn't know what he meant, then I saw it. There was a security camera hanging over there. I turned away. I didn't want to get involved with these types...

I whacked the front end of the cigarette pack against my wrist. Thump thump thump thump thump thump. I delivered even, controlled taps to pack the sweet tobacco down into the machine-rolled paper, to make them burn well and work out any kinks. Packing the cigarettes is a ritual. People just always do it before enjoying the first breath of bliss. In a way it's an announcement to anyone around that you're opening a fresh pack, and to attract curious glances to identify what kind of brand you smoke and if you're worth the time of day.

//Which you obviously are because you pay the 10 a pack…//

But you can't be too loud or slap too fast or hard, otherwise you look moronic. And if you're not smoking anything good…

"I don't see any reason for you to pry," The Japanese youth said. "Do I really look like a cop to you?"

I pulled out a long, creamy, white jack, rolling it tenderly in my gloved fingertips. I inhaled deeply, greedily sucking up the odor, the clover and hickory smokiness, whetting my lips in anticipation.

BANG!!! Then, Szzszzszz

What the fuck!?!? I jump, head snapping around wildly. The loud report echoed in the small store. My heart was jumping suddenly. I sucked in a deep breath, let it out with a whoosh. I looked around to see the crook lower his gun.

"Now there's no camera at all."

I stopped clenching my fist. My fingers loosened and let the mangled cigarette fall silently to the floor. I watched it tumble downwards, ruined and useless. I-

//Why am I such a fuckup like that?//

I bit my lip. I ground the flossed and triply brushed bone into the tiny part of flesh on the inside of my lip. The taste of blood…

//Look at him! He's gonna cry for his mommy! Hahaha! What a wuss//

"Was that necessary?" The Japanese scoffed. He still had his composure, and a layer of sleek arrogance. "An amateur holding me up…"

"Get on the ground, face first with your arms stretched out," The gangly crook didn't take well to the insult.

The Japanese looked cross, furrowing his brow in agitation. "What?"

I quietly fished another jack out of the pack. The trashy looking vagrant had emptied the content of his pockets onto the floor. Just a few dollars, gum, some coins, and a tiny wooden cross. I patted my pockets, wincing at the thought of my wallet and all the credit cards. I had no way to light up.

The gunman calmly repeated, "Get down, face down, on the floor with your arms stretched out and don't move."

"I need a light."

All eyes turned to me in looks of disbelief.

//Always need to be the center of attention…//

"You fucking serious?" The brown haired vagrant was almost laughing.

//Oh he is. Just you wait and see…//

"How am I supposed to smoke it without a light?" I shook my head at him. I was bobbing my head now, tapping the dirty linoleum. Tap-tap.

"There's no smoking in here." The cashier… Tap-

//But you need special treatment, isn't that right? Always so eager to show how you stand above everyone else//

"Go get me a lighter, and take one of those Swisher Sweets out of the pack," The gunman ordered suddenly. The cashier looked dumbfounded. I was a little shocked. "Now." He waved the gun as a small reminder of his power.

The gunman turned his attention back to the whack job. The blue eyes stared at the gun from under a mess of hair without betraying a hint of emotion. The feeling in the room was saturated with edgy pressure. The two just stared at each other while I looked on and the cashier softly padded back behind the counter.

"I don't really give a shit who you are, but you're going to get down on this floor and stay absolutely still while I get this done or I will shoot you," The tall crook's tone was far too neutral to be insincere. "And I will shoot to kill."

A small smile flickered on the well-dressed Asian's face for a brief moment, and then was replaced by a vicious scowl. He slowly stretched his hands out and lowered himself to the floor.

The cashier walked over, sort of stepping around where the dark haired Japanese now lay and handed me a Bic lighter. He made to give the crook his cheap cigar, but I grabbed his shoulder.

I shook my head, "What is this?"

"A lighter," The cashier muttered quickly.

"You don't have any matches?"

"Hahaha," The braided boy fell into a fit of laughs.

//See? Spoiled rotten.//

"Hahaha," Tears welled up in the corner of his amethyst tinted eyes. "Haha ooh, hooh hooh, haha, oh that's fuckin funny. Hahaha."

//He's laughing at you. That sorry piece of gutter trash thinks you're a ridiculous disgrace. How can Father possibly expect you to handle the de Sand account?//

This was the worst day ever.

"Hey," The taller gunman nudged me with the nose of his gun. "Empty out your pockets already."

//I deserve this//

God... I had just wanted a cigarette. I had just wanted to kill the monkey on my back, but all I did was feed it with the addiction. I'd shut it up for a little while, but it'd be back, stronger.

THUNK.

A bolt of surprise and fear snaked through the masked gunman. He swirled around to face the door. Someone was coming inside. Hadn't the cashier locked it? He raised the gun and squared off. The thief glanced behind him to make sure the blue eyed Asian remained on the floor.

The bell on the door jangled. Ring, ring. It swung wide open.

"What the FUCK do you think you're doing?" The gunman demanded.

The unfortunate newcomer took several staggering steps into the room. His feet took random, wild steps and trips. His thin body was wavering and wobbling like a piece of Jello. Despite being winter, he was dressed only in a white wife-beater and some greyed blue-jeans. He was Asian, with dark, raven-black hair. The door shut. His pupils were so incredibly large, literally so wide that his iris were almost nonexistent. His eyes were a dark, coal-like opal. He stared around, swaying like a silk sheet in the wind.

For some reason his eyes landed on me. He was dripping with sweat. Those opal orbs were filled with confusion and… I wondered, 'What the hell was wrong with this guy?'

"I don't feel so good," He mumbled.

And threw up all over the floor.

-end Quatre's POV.

-end "Fate is an Armed Robbery" Part B in Page I of

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: "Fate is Tripping on Drugs"

-feedback is very much appreciated! Hope you liked.

ID Notes: All five of the main characters are here now. Trowa is obviously the robber and yes Wufei is tripping on drugs.


	3. IC: Fate is Tripping Face

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fics!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part C of "Fate works at a 24/7 Convenience Store", Page I in the arc.

"Fate is tripping on drugs"

Wufei's POV

The sickly, unnatural feeling in my stomach was gone. I heaved a sigh of relief, letting out a small belch of indigestion from my wracked and acid-burned stomach.

Well, actually, the substance was called 2C-I, not 9,10-Didehydro-N,N-diethyl-6-methylergoline-8ß-carboxamide, better known as LSD or Acid. The 2C-I is actually a totally different kind of chemical than Acid, belonging to a family of cellular constructs of bonded Carbons with a varied unsatisfied Iomyninome-hyboxol group on the Carbon compound's fringe. The varying element linked to the 2-C group each have a different overall effect on the human body, and the 2-C drugs are thus fairly hard to get a precise grip on, especially when you're tripping on them. So far, 2C-I was quite different from 2C-E or 2C-B, which I'd tried over the past two weeks, but I couldn't quite put my finger on exactly what made this one different. Maybe it was the Iodine?

But God I felt so much better! Even one of Professor Tsubarov's horribly boring lectures on thermodynamics couldn't tarnish the funny, ethereal feeling that crept into my body immediately after puking. I had just needed to get it out of my system.

And out of my system it was. I grinned loopily at the regurgitated muck of chemicals that I had created only a couple days before in the University lab. The pile of vomit was actually quite intriguing. It had a way of flickering in the light, the green bits and fleshy-orange swirls boogying and mixing together. A white foamy substance seemed to bubble in one section, little bubbles swelling and swelling only to burst and release the gases inside into the air. Was that the Iodine? Why was I so obsessed with Iodine?

But it wasn't just the puke that was moving.

My eyes roamed around the store's plethora of colors and textures. Bags of chips burned fiery crimson and sunny yellows into my brain; the sweat off the roasting hotdogs shimmered and rolled around, rotating the grill it was under and making the entire counter wobble. There was so much to see that I couldn't focus too hard on any one thing. I stood, shell-shocked, in the center of the room. I couldn't stop smiling. When you're feeling so alive, nothing can stop you from grinning.

"What the fuck are you all about?" A voice floated to me from some far away radio.

"Pushing the limits of the mind and soul," I smiled in reply.

There was a laugh and I turned towards what I thought might have maybe been the source. There were a few people in the room, but I was feeling sort of disconnected right now from the entire human race. The thought of trying to explain myself further to a random group of strangers was impossible for my mind to handle. Very few powerful psychotropics make a person sociable, and this one was proving to be no exception.

I could only look the amethyst-eyed, long haired, youth in the face for a second. His face did it; it did that thing. It was like a little tic, a sudden quick rearrangement of expressions from wonder - to disdain – to neutral. And I could see in that one brief second a million parts of this one man's essence. The neutrality was fake, a forced mask. The wonder had been legitimate, but just an instinctive human reaction. The disdain was real.

He didn't understand me. He didn't want to ever take the time to understand me. He had a fairly warranted aversion to my sudden entry and… Wow, I had just puked my guts all over the shop's floor… I guess it was something pretty gross and unreasonable… but I could no longer look that youth with the long brown hair (like snakes eating each other!) in the eyes. The negativity seeping out from him was too much to face right now. My excellent mood was flattened a little, though the buzz was still Herculean.

"Put your hands in the air and don't move," The radio-like voice came again. Only this time I noticed that the blonde whose shoes I had almost showered in spew had reacted to it also. His aquamarine eyes showed bewilderment and a bit of terror, but mostly intense frustration and misdirected blame. I followed his gaze to --- Wow. Wait now… That guy can't be wearing a mask. I mean- Is that just me?

I rubbed my eyes and tried again to make sense of the world. Nope, it definitely looked like a mask. And a gun. This guy was hard to read, not because of the mask, I felt, but bec-

2-C compounds don't make you fully free-form hallucinate. They can mess with your perception and senses, but wouldn't create totally false images all on their own-

Holy shit. It registered. That man has a FUCKING GUN!!

My brain exploded.

"Oh my god," I sorta sputtered.

"You should have prayed earlier…" A new voice broke in. I peeked around the well-dressed blonde, whose highlighted, perfectly cut hair was shining a bit too brightly for my taste. I almost did another double-take. There was a Japanese- looking man with messy brown hair lying on his chest on the ground. His face was a blank and I could read nothing out of his tone or expression.

"Please tell me I'm not the only one messed up here," I begged the crowd. I felt nervous, suddenly the center of attention. During the entire trip, the last two and a half hours or so, I had just sort of been a ghost in the living world. I just floated around and took careful mental notes on every little detail and spigot of animation -because even the frigging ground was rolling and breathing underneath my feet- I could peer into. "This is starting to freak me out."

"Give me all of your money and whatever dope you have on you," The masked man spoke again. His voice was dispatched and distant, so similar to that broadcasted emotionlessly from a radio. "And stay calm. There is no reason to freak out."

"Well…. Uh, um…" What to say? I couldn't stand everyone looking at me like that! "Sure, if you say so."

"Then give me your money and the dope."

I sort of fumbled around in my pockets for a minute. I came up with a stick of gum in my hands and didn't feel like putting it back into my pocket. I really didn't want to eat it either… I was pretty sure the clout of cinnamon crystals would send my taste sensory system into cerebral Shangri-La, and I wasn't sure I could devote that much of my mind to chewing gum.

So I sort of held it out in the palm of my hand in front of the gunman, and asked, "Anybody want any?"

He wasn't interested. "I said to hand over the money and the dope. Come on."

Oh that's right, robbery in progress. Right, OK. Christ, it was hard to concentrate on this stuff...

"I didn't mean-" I struggled to stuff the gum into my back pocket, but stopped. I was wearing pants without any back pockets. I just dropped the gum on the ground. My eyes swam around the room as my hands rummaged through my pockets with alien moves, clumsy and fumbling, unused to operating a human body.

A pack of matches I'd swiped from the University chemistry lab fell onto the floor as I pried the wallet from my pants. I like to wear them a little tighter than most men, so I can feel the fabric against my skin constantly. Tonight I wasn't wearing any boxers or briefs either, just to give the lower region of my body a uniform tactile experience.

Suddenly the blonde lunged forward and snapped up the matches from the floor. The robber kept his gun trained on him, with deadly intensity flickering in his one visible eye. The green orb was deathly serious, like a smoldering emerald coal. The pleasant feeling that had crept through my body for most of the trip started to subside to a darker, soberer aura. Well, maybe not soberer. Was that even a real word?

"Didn't I say no sudden moves?" The gunman asked, with a tinge of frustration.

"Didn't I say I need a goddamn cigarette?" The blonde shot back hotly.

He lit the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. I watched the features in his face and body relax as the nicotine swirled into his bloodstream and pacified the quaking need in his brain. The blonde let out a satisfied sigh amidst a puff of smoke. The light refracted off the grayish wisps and tracked the topsy-turvy flight of the rising haze. My mouth probably fell open at the uninhibited, care-free ascent of the cloud. The sight was so simple, but completely beautiful. It symbolized the freedom that mankind could never attain-

"You've got yours, I need to get mine," The robber said. "Time to cough up the dough rich boy."

"Here ya go," With a lazy flick, the blonde tossed his stuffed wallet into a black plastic bag that a scrawny looking cashier was holding. The fair skinned blonde shut his eyes to close out the world around him and focused on the blissful stimulus of his drug of choice.

"You," The robber addressed the cashier. "Get everyone's stuff off the floor and into the bag. Leave the gun."

The masked man then turned toward me. "What kind of shit you rolling on?" He asked.

Where to begin? With the fact that this was a rather rare chemical construct that only the gnarliest druggies and astute scientists had ever encountered? Well, I guess it started before that, with the first time I ever tripped on Acid about five years ago, in my first year of college outside my home country, far away from the smothering traditional fixation of my family.

After undergoing such a mind-bending, soul-searching, spiritually redefining Acid trip, I'd had to deal with the bitter displeasure I found with life once my day-long psychedelic foray ended. Or maybe it started with my family arranging whom I was going to marry way before I even weighed my interest in the opposite sex?

Or maybe it was because I was such a different person when I was on drugs? Normally I was uptight, short tempered and (and I could only admit it in this altered state of mind) extremely arrogant about being right all the time. I let all the small quirks bother me and people's flaws infuriated me. On drugs, and it obviously depended on what drug I was on, I laughed together with people at the general stupidity of mankind. I enjoyed the quirks for what they were. I would be intrigued and eager to discover more about them. I was also so self-conscious about myself, so completely introverted, that it was almost impossible for me to pick a fight or be an asshole to others. It was sort of hard to answer the question bec-

"What was the question again?" I asked honestly.

"What. Drugs. Are. You. On?" The masked man reiterated it so slowly that I had trouble remembering what the first word of the question had been.

"It's a little difficult to describe," I started, rubbing the back of my neck. "It's from my most recent batch. There really isn't a street name or anything for it… I don't even think the government knows about it enough to have outlawed it."

"You're that retarded from something legal?" The braided bum broke in. He smiled wolfishly and nodded, "I gotta find me some of that shit!"

"You really can't find it," I reiterated. It was so hard for me to communicate with people. "And it's not easy to make either."

"You can make drugs?" The masked man asked, surprise breaking into his monotone.

Then he addressed the cashier, "Give me his wallet." He carefully took out my ID card and flipped the wallet back at my feet. The black suede folds rippled and strained to keep the few green dollar bills from squirming their way out. The glare off the plastic where my ID card had been flared like a brilliant rectangular star.

"Wufei Chang. You can keep your stuff," The tall robber said. "But I'm holding on to this," He held up my ID card, "and may pay you a visit someday. You can repay the favor then."

He stuffed my ID into his pants and turned around as an ominous chuckle, like wind down a dingy back alley, floated up from the floor.

"So it's drugs huh?" The Japanese man was staring intently at the masked gunman. "I got one-upped by some druggie? Hahaha." His laugh was a dark, malicious expression of disgust and arrogance. "I must be losing my edge, for some dope fiend to get the drop on me."

"Everyone's got a vice," I cut in. Such narrow-minded convictions always roused anger in me (unless they were my own). "I'm sure you've got your share of issues and weaknesses too. We're all human."

"Oh he's got issues!" The braided urchin smirked. "Dude, you just nailed that bitch on the head! He's just a loony that likes to dress nice." There was nothing nice about the bum except for his long chestnut locks.

"You-" The fierce growl from the Japanese was cut off by a sudden noise.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

It came from the Japanese.

"I thought I told you to empty his pockets," The gunman spoke to the one with the long brown braid. The curls of hair twisted and intertwined together like a bed of sunburned snakes.

"I thought I did," The bum gave a casual shrug.

"It's my beeper," The Japanese guy spoke. "Can you hurry up and get out of here so I can get to a phone? I don't take too many breaks in my line of work."

"Everyone's got their important stuff to do," The blonde added, mellow now. He was savoring his cigarette, head back, staring at the ceiling as the half-finished cancer stick burned in a corner of his mouth. "You don't think I have better things to do than hang around with you all?"

BEEP BEEP BEEP

"Where the hell do you keep that thing?" The bum always had a tinge of laughter in his tone. He slapped the leg of his pants, the impact visibly pushing the fibers away in a circular wave spreading out from the spot. The random patterns of disturbance captivated me so that I really didn't hear what the others were talking about for a minute.

"Why should I give you my beeper number?" The Japanese was asking.

"Because otherwise I'm just going to take it from you," The masked gunman threatened, without so much as a hint of threat or anger in his tone. He was merely stating a fact. "You know they don't make those things anymore, and you don't seem like the kind of guy who'd be very good talking on the phone."

"Don't expect me to do you any favors if you come calling…" The Japanese groused. Then, grudgingly, "Fine. The number is 02-777-8695"

"Write that down on a piece of paper and throw it in the bag," The gunman ordered the cashier.

"He's lying," The blonde interrupted. He didn't say what made him think so or how he might know; just flicked at the dwindling end of his cigarette. Flakes of grey ash sank towards the sea of linoleum, swallowed up by the waves of rolling artificial floor. For an equally unknown reason, I believed he knew what he was saying.

"Get me his beeper," Now there was a threat in the gunman's voice.

"Ch! Fine! It's 01-777-8695. 01-three 7's- 8695. You happy now?" The Japanese guy answered from the floor, shaking his head in disbelief and irritation.

"Umm," I don't know why, but I just sort of let the sound slip out of my mouth.

"What?" The robber asked.

"Um...Can I leave?"

"No. Just wait a little longer."

I shifted uncomfortably, scratching a bug bite that was still lingering on the inside of my right shin from my shroom expedition at the Balamb Garden Zoo. It had been exhilarating, walking into a tropical climate from the blizzard that had gripped the city for the past week. But the insects had irritated the heck out of me, nearly making me bug out every time I heard their buzzing.

"Those drugs make you paranoid?" The gunman asked.

"Well, no. I don't know," I looked from the floor to the blonde to the cashier. The latter immediately looked away and his eyes sort of bulged before he wiped nervously at his forehead. "I just don't have a good feeling about-"

"About what?" The thief asked.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Hear what?"

w

"I- I'm not sure…"

"Dude, the guy is fucking wigging out on drugs," The sloppy one with the long braid chuckled. "He's probably hearing all sorts of violin quartets and ethereal whispers right now or some shit like that."

whooo

Something was about to happen.

The thief decided to shake it off, "Well, I'm about to get out of here anyway…" He asked the blonde guy, with a hint of a smile behind his mask, "Did you enjoy your smoke?"

I turned towards the doors looking out on the darkened streets. There seemed to be glimmering sparks of lights approaching.

"Yeh. … Thanks."

The cashier took a nervous step towards the door. He was sweating. It was nicely air conditioned in the store. I started feeling sick in my stomach again.

"Don't mention it. You probably don't even need to worry about me using your credit cards. Since you're rich, you probably have some super special security service."

catszsafatzs

The scrambled white noise from a radio started buzzing faintly in the back of my head.

"Umm… thanks?" The blonde said sheepishly.

Castzsdtaftaszsz

A hand gradually began to turn up the volume, louder, louder.

"Can you just hurry it up?" The Japanese snapped. "I gotta make that call."

Whooocatszsafachszwssen

Louder.

WhooCatsafatswerneover?

Louder. Intermittent bits of chatter and grinding of gears meshed and trampled my auditory senses. What was this? Where the hell was this coming from?

"Everyone can leave," The thief announced, glancing into the bag of loot. "Except for you," He pointed to the brown haired Japanese. "You don't move a muscle until I'm long gone, you understand?"

whoowhoowhoowoopCantsfatswe'rezszpositionwerene. Over

None of us were going anywhere.

"You hear that?" The indigo eyed American looked my way.

The cashier flinched.

"Oh my god," The gunman tensed visibly.

Whooowhooowhoowhoooo. Chunktinkdonk. dadadadada

It was right outside. The noise broke into the whine of brake pads and the metallic clink and clunk of car doors opening and closing. The patter of feet scrambling over asphalt thundered in my ears.

Red light danced across the ceiling. Blue light lit up the dark alleyways and shadowy corners of the street outside.

"_Get down on the ground! Get down on the ground! No one's going anywhere, you hear me!?_" The gunman yelled.

A blinding barrage of burning white spotlight stung my eyes as I bent over and touched my hands to the cool linoleum floor. Around me the others were doing the same. Only the cashier and the gunman remained standing.

"You piece of shit." The gunman shook his head at the cashier.

"Please don't hurt me!" He begged in reply.

"Get on the fucking ground."

"THIS IS THE METRO POLICE DEPARTMENT. YOU ARE SURROUNDED. THERE IS NO POINT IN RESISTING. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND SURRENDER."

"No one's going anywhere," The gunman sternly commanded.

I managed to hold back the queasiness as my cheek touched the dirty, yet soothingly cool floor. The sense made me quiver slightly, sending a small tingle down my spine. I looked up, as best I could, at the dancing lights roving and tangoing across the ceiling in mingling patterns and paths. God, I was glad I was on drugs.

-end Wufei's POV.

-end part C of "Fate works at a 24/7 Convenient Store", Page #1 in the debauchery and hedonisim arc that shall be named "Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

-feedback to is very much appreciated! Hope you liked.

Next part: "Fate is a Surrounding Police Force"

References:

2C-I is a real drug. I am not a professional doctor or scientist, and that chemistry babble is just what I've heard. The effects of this drug are all things I've researched, but I actually do not know that much about the chemical structure or anything like that. For information on this drug and all others go to is married to Meiran, who is his arranged wife his parents set him up with.

The name of the zoo comes from the principal setting in Final Fantasy 8.


	4. ID: Fate is a Surrounding Police Force

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fics!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part D of "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store", Page I in the s4 arc.

"Fate is a Surrounding Police Force"

Trowa's POV

I knelt down on the floor to duck out of sight or at least confuse the cops as to who their sights should be on. _This might be the end for me_, I thought. I'd never faced more than three police all on my own. I was surrounded. No exits except the front door. Trapped.

"THERE IS NOWHERE TO RUN." The megaphone voice boomed out. "YOU CAN SAVE YOURSELF A LOT OF TROUBLE BY SURRENDERING QUIETLY."

"You should just listen to him," The blonde, probably most upset about how dirty his designer clothes were getting on the shop floor, advised me.

"Shut up," I spat, meaner than I probably should. "What do you care?"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Of course I understood, but I wasn't going to get up and answer them. One thing I'd learned about these city cops was that they were no braver than the ones out in the country. They weren't about to run in and risk their necks for some nobody store clerk. They'd even draw it out, get overtime pay if they could. Shucks, out on the plains it was different. Everybody knew everybody, had gone to school with that nobody store clerk or wanted to court the owner's daughter. Maybe brave wasn't the word.

"THIS IS THE METRO CITY POLICE..."

But, ya know, it sure was a long way out to the country...

I ignored the blaring ruckus of the megaphone. I stayed low and tried to come up with a plan. I had time; those cops weren't going to storm the place or nothing, not just yet. But I was still worried, as I had cased the joint for a few days prior and hadn't seen any doors other than the front. Maybe I could make a break for it out the front before too much backup arrived? I didn't have many options. I could sit here and stew for awhile longer or jump out into the fire and...

That was it.

"This building has to have emergency fire exits." I turned towards the cashier. He was still standing, quivering in terror. "Where are they?"

"F-fire exits?" He stuttered.

I wondered if anyone had ever told him what to do in case of an emergency. I wondered if he'd ever thought about the risk he was taking every night, all alone, an easy target in this store, completely isolated in the Financial District, everything else locked up long ago when the last of the suits left their high profile, big time offices. Shit, they probably didn't even let him keep a shotgun.

"I-I-"

"This place has to have emergency exits," I tried not to scare him any worse. I needed him to be able to remember a way out of this building.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. The Asian in the business suit was standing up. He had held me up by being such a hassle, carrying a gun and acting so strangely calm. He'd struck me as familiar as well... He acted like one of the true underworld folk, not just a two-bit crim like me. I had almost no doubt that he was a seasoned pro.

"What are you doing?" I asked him. I aimed at him, my arm resting on my knee as I pointed the nozzle straight at him. Was he crazy? Standing up like that in the middle of all this… Obviously not military trained...

"I'm getting out of here." He didn't even look at me, just patted some of the flakes of dirt and grime off his suit. His eyes were focused on the cashier. The dark blue Prussian orbs glinted with malice and exhilaration. His thin lips were pursed in an even thinner smile, like a slit from ear to ear. "Try to stop me."

He walked over to the cashier, who looked around nervously. The pimply-faced kid looked back from me to the Asian, to me, to the Asian. Then he turned to run.

"Waaghh!" he let out a cry. The Asian gangster, they call them Yakuza or something like that, had leaped at him like a pole cat on a fledgling bird. A steel paw gripped the back of the cashier's shirt and a lump of skin from his neck. The other hand took a firm hold of the jaw, ring finger and thumb lodged in the hinges of the mouth. He forced the cashier to look into his eyes.

"Where is the fire exit?"

"Igh- Igh-"

"I can't hear you." Mercilessly tightening his grip, he leered.

"Ing a gase'ent." The cashier was hardly able to breathe, let alone speak.

The Yakuza let go and the cashier fell to his knees, coughing and sputtering. The monstrous Asian turned towards me and said, "Give me back my gun." He went on, as if it were obvious, "I never usually help out small-time guys like yourself, but I'm not having a nice chat with the cops either." Then he added, "With two of us, it'll be easy."

"We'll have to hurry." My answer came automatically.

A knowing nod trying to bridge the silence, the Asian's unblinking eyes whispered a secret signal that was just as, if not stronger, than any spoken word.

-Not like I want to do this, but we're on the same team now-

I bit my lip slightly as I returned the gaze. Okay.

His mouth spread into a thin, stony smile, white teeth just flickering slightly, lips taught and fiery blue eyes smoldering:

-Cross me and you're dead.-

I let out a thin stream of breath. Okay.

"Come here." The Yakuza gestured, fist clenched around the gun's butt, towards the blonde. "You're coming with me."

"No," I said. "He's my hostage."

"WHAT?-" The blonde began to protest.

"Shut up!" I pointed my pistol straight at the pretty blonde boy. Gosh, he was something to see. His body instantly tensed and he looked around incredulously.

Those sparkling blue eyes accused me. -That's not fair!-

Life's a bitch.

"You can't be serious. Please don't-"

"Shut up." I removed the gun's safety pointedly.

And at the end, you die. And so it goes.

"You're my hostage. You've obviously got cash, probably some moneybags' kid. The cops won't even want to risk singeing one of your little blonde hairs. You're coming with me whether you like it or not."

So please cooperate and maybe we'll all see tomorrow morning. Okay?

The blonde nodded. He looked small and scared, cranky and wanting to go to bed. His face was scrunched up in a plea for sympathy or special favor. His full, glossy lips even pouted tenderly.

-I hate you! Just leave me alone.-

The branding hot sting of shame and guilt simmered in my chest. I felt like a monster, sweating under the hood and mask. Did I really have to get innocent people caught up in all of this? The landlord was threatening eviction again, and on top of that I owed my weed dealer. This had come right on top of my wrecking my taxi cab, essentially meaning I earned nothing for the next three months or more. Maybe there was another way…

"Stop dolling over him and let's get moving," the dark haired Yakuza spat. Then he pointed to the trashy-looking youth with the ridiculously long braid. "You're coming with me. Don't try anything funny."

The braided guy put up his hands like a the cat about to eat the bird and said, "Wouldn't dream of it."

Staying low, I crawled over to the blonde, asking, "What's your name?"

"Quatre Winner."

"WINNER?" The braided youth gawked. Damn, he had some sharp ears. "Like THE Winners? The richest family since the Rockefellers?"

"Stop squawking!" The Yakuza slapped the grungy boy's head. "You don't talk or move or breathe without my permission, understand?"

Nostrils flaring, eyes flashing, the braided boy nodded, whispering something I couldn't catch. Whatever it was caught the Yakuza by surprise, because his mouth opened to speak in reply. But he stopped himself.

"I'm coming with you too." The Chinese guy, Wufei Chang, looked up from the floor, where he was writhing slightly, like a pig in mud. His eyes were distorted. I was curious to try whatever shit he was flinging on. "I'm not staying around for the cops."

"Just one minute," the Yakuza said. He looked at the cashier.

There was murder in his eyes.

-end Trowa's POV.

-end part D of Page I in the Sex, Substance, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: "Fate is a Good Witness Protection Program"


	5. IE: Fate is a Witness Protection Program

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fics!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part E of "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store" Act I in the s4 arc.

"Fate is a Good Witness Protection Program"

Heero's POV

"Just one minute," I told the masked thief. There was something I had to handle first.

The cashier had seen my face. He had even heard me say my name. I couldn't believe I had blurted that out loud...

My blood began to boil as I felt the sensation beginning to bubble and surge in my gut, my nervous system steaming with the power of resolve.

I strode over to the cashier, who was stupidly sitting on the floor, rubbing his wrung neck. He looked up at me as I approached. I felt like liquid smoke, a walking mass of spontaneous combustion. I stared at him blankly, betraying nothing.

I took a deep breath, cocked my left leg back a bit, and kicked my foot directly into the cashier's crotch. Size 10s smashed into his testicles.

"AHGCH!" A cough, a sob and a wail all balled up together in the cashier's throat. His hands instinctively went to his ballsack, which assuredly would be black-and-blue in the morning. He began to cry.

I knelt down in front of him. He didn't even writhe away. He was too busy trying to breathe and block out the pain. His eyes were even shut, as if he could somehow block out the pain by blinding himself to the agonizing reality. I had to open his eyes and make him come to grips with his plight. I didn't have time to waste on this scum. More than one hostage was only trouble, another distraction. The sound of gunshots would make the police storm the place. He would live, but I wanted him to wish for death.

I stretched out my gun arm. The cashier's eyes were squeezed shut in agony. I put the nozzle of the pistol under his chin, lifting his head up. I needed him to look at me. He did, but only for a second. He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to block it all out. I pushed the point of the gun up to his throat. His eyes shot wide open. The pressure of a gun's nozzle threatening to crush the veins and walls of your respiratory system often does that.

I looked into his eyes and said plainly, "I have no time for you; so if you waste it, I will take your life right here in front of these four people. I will leave soon, but you will stay right here. You will not move from this spot or call for help, and if you do, I will find you. If you ever tell the police anything about me, you will die, slowly. You can never escape from me. That is impossible. Do you understand?"

He nodded weakly. The tears flowed freely, giving a salty sheen to his pimply cheeks.

"Say it!"

"I-I understand," He sobbed pathetically. He looked back down at his crotch. The tears came faster. He was feeling so sorry for himself.

I had to make sure he would never say a word to the police, ever. He had to believe that no witness protection program in the world could keep him safe. That was the truth. It wouldn't do him one bit of good. More pressingly, I didn't have much time to ensure this.

I reached down to my right shoe. I tapped twice on one spot on the outer ridge of where the sole connects to the suede material. From the ridgeline a 1.5 inch blade popped out perfectly into my palm. I fingered it tightly. The breath caught in my throat. My heart rate sped up.

I cursed the time. I wanted to draw this out, enjoy it for as long as possible. I could spend an eternity slowly shredding this poor excuse for a human being to small, insignificant ribbons. But I doubted the cashier would last long. His will to live would quickly fall to the escape of death, easily succumbing to the bliss that would accompany the cessation of his vital functions, the shutting down of the brain. No, he would escape the agony too soon to be any fun for me... And I didn't have that kind of time...

"You will not forget what I look like. It will stay with you forever. I will be in your nightmares. You will fear for your family, your loved ones, your friends, fear that I will kill them all. You will never tell anyone about me. If you do, your nightmares will come true."

I looked into his eyes.

His fear did not satisfy me.

I grabbed the cashier's hand. It was like holding a luke-warm fish that had been de-scaled. I showed him the blade. I made sure he saw it. The fear flickered in his eyes. Against the fabric of my boxers, my penis began to harden. I sucked in a breath through my nose, savoring the smell of his terror. He shook his head weakly from side-to-side. He tried to take his hand back. I tightened my grip. He began to squirm and protest aloud:

"No-"

I stuck the blade into his hand, cutting into the nerves at the base of his ring finger. My hand was over his mouth, muffling what would have been screams. The vein was severed easily. It began to ooze out, running in a tiny stream down his wrist, abandoning him. I watched it run. I put more pressure on his wrist. The flow increased, the trickle turned into a slow stream.

I ran the knife over to his pinky. It cut that nerve just as easily as the previous. More blood. I had to focus to keep the cashier from biting me or from wriggling free. He reeked of sweat and urine now. His eyes were bulging, the sweat beading like bubbling pox. Depending on how much he'd had to drink he'd finish soaking his underwear before I was done.

I kept the blade inside his hand, slowly dragging it down the side of his palm, around the outside of his hand, opening more and more escape for the lifeblood. Several red rivers ran this way and that, all escaping. I dragged it all the way down, and then pulled the blade out. The cut ran from his ring finger, to his pinky and down the side of his hand. The skin was awash in red.

I couldn't stop the smile from stretching my cheeks. I was smiling so hard it almost hurt. The amusement and excitement bubbled in my throat, making it hard to speak without roaring in laughter.

I pricked his thumb. "Do." A drop of blood appeared. "You." I poked his pointer. "Under." His middle finger. "Stand." His chalk white pale ring finger yielded no blood. "Me?" His mutilated pinky was just as empty.

He nodded, too weak to say anything.

"Good."

I brought the blade down quickly, using all my force to send it through the center of the cashier's palm. It stuck clear out the other side of his hand.

The cashier saw it and passed out.

I pulled the blade out and put it back in its hidden compartment in my shoe. I slapped him heavily across the face.

The cashier was conscious again.

I stood up, looking down at him. His crying eyes were locked on mine. "Put ice on it and wait ten minutes before leaving this building. If you do otherwise I will kill you." I ordered, and turned away.

I would masturbate to this memory that night.

-end Heero's POV.

-end "Fate is a Good Witness Protection Program", part E of Page I in the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

-feedback would be lovely!

Next: "Fate is Unreasonable Affection"


	6. IF: Fate is Unreasonable Affection

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fics!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part F of "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenient Store", Page I in the s4 arc.

"Fate is Unreasonable Affection"

Trowa's POV

I couldn't see a thing in the basement of the 24-7 store, but neither the Yakuza nor myself were about to turn on any kind of light. I shuffled along in the darkness, prodding Wufei Chang's back every few paces to urge him forward. The smell of rotten food stunk worse than pigs and the floor was strewn with flattened cardboard boxes and trash. I couldn't see it, but I could hear the moldy, damp trash squish slightly under my feet as I led the Chinese hostage through the dark.

I had my left arm firmly encircled around the Winner kid's neck, the warmth of his every intake and release beating a steady, quickened tempo. In the other hand I held one of the flashlights that we'd grabbed from the store before descending into the basement.

I could barely hear the Yakuza and his hostage behind me, moving in a silence that sometimes made me wonder if they hadn't stopped or disappeared into thin air. I could understand about the Yakuza, an obvious veteran in covert and combat, but his braided hostage was surpassingly stealthy.

At one point, my hostage, Quatre Winner, stumbled and the sound of a metal bucket crashing over on the floor and rolling on its side echoed in the total silence. Startled, I had tightened my grip on the blonde's throat, leaving him coughing stifled, little coughs. I had a hand clapped over his mouth, and his breath was hot, even through my gloves.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. I was surprised at myself. This was my hostage, my ticket to freedom, and nothing more. If it came down to it I'd put a bullet between his eyes in a heartbeat (but why did I doubt that I'd be able to do that?), so there was no point in apologizing.

A few paces later, I let my hand drop down to his upper sternum, my hand releasing its tightly balled fist. I could feel his pulse thumping now, feel the ridge of his upper breast and the muscles screwed up in his shoulder. He wasn't built, but still in shape. "Better?" I asked, unconsciously caressing his chest. Again, it made no sense, and, again, I couldn't deny that I was having these emotions towards him.

I could only guess what the rich kid's response might have been, because the next second I bumped into Wufei Chang. I prodded him with the pistol, but he didn't move.

"It's a door," he said airily, softly. Sure enough, a thin line of gray light was on the floor before his toes... and... I strained my ears to listen; there were voices on the other side.

I made a motion to the Yakuza to back up several feet, getting away from the door and hopefully out of earshot of anyone outside.

"Sounds like four or five of them," the stiff Japanese muttered. "Not too bad..."

"I'm not going out there shooting," I whispered.

"Hn, lose your resolve?" The Yakuza asked with a bite.

"No, but we don't know for sure how many are out there or where they are." And, and I didn't say it, I also didn't want to risk the Winner's life in a shootout. My own... well, that was another story... "We need some kind of diversion, lure them away."

"Fair enough," he conceded, sounding a little disappointed. "I have a plan, but you may still need to use your gun. You shoot to kill?"

I nodded. That was life. I wasn't going to jail, and I wasn't quite ready to die either. I hadn't wanted to commit armed robbery, but I wasn't about to go hungry or get kicked out onto the street. On the other side of that door were men that had preferences directly opposed to my own. And maybe someone was about to die because of that. So it goes.[1

"You," the Japanese tapped the drugged-up Asian who spun around confusedly, his eyes still bugging out of his head. "When I snap my fingers, I want you to throw open that door and go running out." The Yakuza continued over what might have been a forming protest from the Chinese youth, "Make sure you leave it wide open. Put your hands up high in the air as you go out; they won't shoot you, but make sure they don't catch you immediately. I don't care what direction you run in, just don't stop until they drag you to the ground. And make sure you leave this door wide open."

There was a funny look of resolve in the hostage's oversized opal eyes, a grim determination that I couldn't identify or place. He nodded and turned to face the door.

-Geronimo-

"Take the left side, I'll take the right," the Yakuza ordered. "Stick to the walls, so if they look in they don't see anything right away." I didn't need to be told that...

The Japanese snarled in Wufei Chang's ear, "If you don't get at least out of view of this doorway I'm going to put a bullet in your skull, so make it speedy." He backed up several feet away from the door and flattened against the wall, flashlight and gun out and ready. I did the same on the opposite side.

He snapped his fingers.

Wufei threw the door open and a row of confused cries erupted as he emerged. The dull, electric tangerine light from the distant streetlamps barely lit the alleyway, but forced me to squint nonetheless. I saw three police all yell "STOP STOP" and then take off after him. He bounced to the right and the following footsteps were soon quickly fading into the night. I didn't move. Had they all gone?

"Haha," someone outside chuckled. "What the hell ya reckon that was all about, Otto?"

"Dunno," 'Otto' answered. "Didn't look like..."

The voice sounded wary, suspicious. I could almost feel his eyes, potentially on either side of the door, but how far away I couldn't tell, frowning at the door. I saw the Yakuza cock his head at me meaningfully.

"But damn that boy was sure in some kinda hurry!" The first cop was not on point at all. It sounded like he was on my side of the door. "You reckon he turned tail and left the loot?"

"We should check in there," 'Otto' commanded. "Careful."

Heavy footsteps padded on the loose stones and trash of the alley. A black-laced, black boot appeared just to my right.

The blonde Winner boy was shaking. He had remained totally silent the whole time, but now his pulse was beating furiously. I raised my hand and stroked his cheek reassuringly, like a mother would. His skin was as soft as a baby's. His hair smelled faintly of strawberries still on the vine. I wanted to reassure him that he'd be alright; but, just as quickly as the emotion came, I also remembered that he was to be my human shield, the potential sacrifice I might have to make if I wanted to escape. But... and again... would I make that decision?... I didn't have time to sort my thoughts out.

Two heads peeped around the corner, shaded forms sliding towards us on either side of the wall, their boots making too much noise. I could have shot both of them right there. But if there were more, or if others were close by... Ten feet off, they didn't enter.

"I'm going in," the one on the right said. The other shadow head nodded.

The Yakuza looked at me and then nodded.

We switched our flashlights on simultaneously and rushed out. The cop on my side tried to cover his eyes, stumbled on a part of the door and falling to a knee. It was too easy to smash my right knee up into his face as he groped around blindly. I turned the corner, ready to break to the right and hoof it out of there.

"Don't move!"

My eyes darted around the alleyway. There! The light from my flashlight made the cop crouching behind a dumpster visible.

"We have hostages," I heard the Yakuza growl behind me. "You will let us go or they die. Call for backup and they die."

The cop already had his gun out, steadied on top of the dumpster, his curly haired head sticking out just slightly. It was a stalemate. I had a hostage and couldn't aim that carefully. He was covered, but couldn't get a decent bead on me due to the flashlight in his eye and the hostage in my arms.

He said, "You'll never escape."

I replied, "Then our two hostages will die." I threw a little more bass and spittle into my throat, hoping it would make me sound more vicious and dangerous, "Could you live with the heir to the Winner fortune's death on your mind?"

"You mother fuckers..." The cop whose face I had kicked got up, staggering backwards, down the alleyway, past the Japanese gunman and his hostage. His gun hand was limp at his side.

In the brief silence that followed, I took a few shuffles towards the alleyway that the Chinese had disappeared down. That was the only way that didn't lead back to the streets. The longer we took, the worse our chances got.

"We don't have time, and we're not bluffing." The Yakuza also had a sense of the situation. "I'll kill this one right now just to prove it to you."

"And reveal yourselves for the rest of the police force?" the cop named Otto countered, calling the bluff. But, I wasn't so sure that it had been a bluff at all. In fact...

"Nobody needs to die today," I said. "But I'm not going to jail either."

"Walk away, slowly," Heero whispered to his hostage.

-end Trowa's POV.

-end "Fate is Unreasonable Affection"part F in Page I in the debauchery and hedonism arc that shall be named "Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

Next: "Fate is Murder in the First Degree"

ID Notes:

Otto is the same Otto from Gundam Wing. The other cop is not anyone in particular, just another cop.

Notes[1 This is a Slaughterhouse 5 reference. It is an excellent book that I recommend to everyone. "So it goes" is a saying used in the story when death is referred to.


	7. IG: Fate is Murder in the 1st Degree

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fics!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons later, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Note: This is the first chapter that deals with the actual layout of the setting, Metro City. I've made a small map and it's online for anyone who wants to know where exactly shit is. G of "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store", Page I in the s4 arc.

"Fate is Murder in the First Degree"

Duo's POV

So then the crazy psycho killer guy who I should be scared of but instead was frighteningly attracted to told me to 'Walk away, slowly.' What the fuck else am I supposed to do? This same random nutjob had also said earlier that he wanted to jizz in my retinas. I'd accidentally run into him while scooping up "Trick III" from the 24-7 slurpee place, all of like twenty minutes ago. Before I know it, a second psycho comes in waving a gun, and when the 5-0 breaks it up BOTH schizoids take me, the rich pampered fop and some random Chink tripping on God-knows-the-fuck-what-drug at gunpoint and make a break for it!

I had gotten much more from the Kwikee Mart than just lemon flavored gum and some whack-off material… And don't get me wrong, I like getting my kicks, but this was just a little fucking daunting, even by my not so delicate standards.

But, for some reason, the idea of leaving the side of the absolutely drop-dead gorgeous piece of stone-cold killer, who had been digging his pistol into my spine, and occasionally poking the cold chrome down inside of my jeans (I don't like the constriction of boxers or briefs FYI) was something I did very, very, very slowly.

I glanced over my shoulder at the guy (Heero Yuy was it?) as I took heavy step after heavy step towards the cop who still had his gun drawn. From behind I could feel his piercing cobalt eyes skull-fucking me, his mouth neither slack nor clenched, his breathing heavy, his tan still perfect in the middle of winter, and his crisp, unwrinkled suit and tie (red, very much oriented to his business-like demeanor) completely contrasted with his Oh-Oops-I-Ran-Out-Without-Combing-My-Hair-Does-It-Look-Messy? brown hair.

YES! YOUR HAIR DOES MAKE YOU SO FUCKING SEXY! YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO GET ALL OF MINE UP IN THIS RIDICULOUS 5-FOOT LONG BRAID!?!

…Oh wait, where was I?

That's right, the high-octane, desperate, standoff hostage exchange scene…

But do you know what I mean about putting in so much effort into one aspect of your appearance and then seeing someone pull an even better-looking style that must take them all of two voodoed seconds every morning? It really pisses me off…

Right, right, the exotic psycho killer, who I'd bet $50 was a firebrand in the sack, was slowly deathglare-fucking me with his so serious "I'm going to kill you" eyes and half waving me over towards Joe Oz.

Joe Oz was the cop standing about six feet away from me, squinting against the beam from the psycho's flashlight. It said 'Joe Oz' on his glinting gold badge. Joe was short, fat and sweating, shaking slightly. I made a point not to look at Joe's face, because I had a feeling that the guy behind me was going to end his life. The fuzz ID him and fax out sketches of his gorgeous mug? Not this one. This one was special. Heero Yuy.

**BANG!**

But I never fucking expected for the psycho-hunk to shoot just as I walked a quarter-step past the line of sight between him and Joe Shmoe Oz. The first bullet went right through my well-shampooed weaves. I can't believe he shot my hair! That mother-fucker!

**BANG!** Joey took another bullet, this one right up his nose. A nice spurt of blood and brain pieces came out the other end, along with the metal slug. I heard a loud roar of commotion from all sides of the building, the cops choking on their donuts as they tried to figure out what was going on and where.

"JOE!!!" The other cop yelled, head disappearing behind a dumpster on the other side of the alley, nearer to where the tall masked robber and the Hiltonite (aka. spoiled rich whore) were scrambling towards the darkness of the alley up ahead.

"You're coming with me," The psycho killer suddenly hissed into my ear, actually nipping the top of my lobe, digging his thumb into my mid-forearm and pulling me along with him in the same direction.

**BANG! BANG!** Heero fired two more shots at the cop hiding behind the dumpster, just as we darted around the corner of the abandoned movie complex and out of the lights from the main street. I heard a groan of pain. Did this guy actually _hit _ the cop behind the dumpster? Was he some sort of Asian Billy the Kid?

I didn't quite know what to think, but wasn't left much time for it. The psycho-hunk broke out into a sprint; I'm talking a balls-to-the-wall-Get-the-FEEYUCK-outta-Dodge sprint. He was still clutching my right arm, pinching my nerve, and it really looked like he was serious about making me his ticket to escape. I'll have a gay porno and a stick of gum, please. My partner here'll take one first degree murder and a hostage to go, thank you very much.

I tore out running as best I could, what with one captive arm. I was not going to trip; I was too afraid he'd shoot me in the head and leave me there if I held him back.

The robber and the rich bitch took a hard right, the blonde kicking an empty Budweiser bottle into the brick wall and shattering it. The taller guy was practically dragging him. The rich bitch's idea of breaking a sweat was probably counting all his money.

My psycho-dreamboat nearly dislocated my shoulder as he made a sudden left. I was caught off balance and had to dance/weave through stacked cardboard boxes, trash bags , dumpsters and try not to slip on the leftover wintry slush. The breath from my deranged captor streamed out into my face like smoke from a locomotive, even and paced breaths.

We scampered across an empty street and into the shadows of an apartment complex. He slung me up against the wall, finally letting go of my wrist, which would certainly be black and blue tomorrow. Nothing a little makeup wouldn't fix though. The cold air harshly burned my lungs. It felt good.

Sirens yelled in the darkness, coming and going like mindless ghosts. I guess he was giving me a moment to catch my breath, though I didn't really need it. I was breathing heavily, but could easily have still ran a couple miles before really getting tired. Stealing for a living really does wonders for your stamina, ya know?

"Stay here," He commanded, breathing sharply in my ear. He turned to leave.

I caught him by the wrist, spinning him back to face me and drawing him close. I could have kneed him in the balls or made a grab for the gun, but that would have been a huge risk, and besides, escape wasn't my top priority right now.

"Yes, _master_," I whispered seductively into his ear. Calling him that had gotten a rise out of him earlier in the Kwikee mart, and I wondered how he would react now, in a dark alley, when we were all alone. I stuck my tongue into his ear.

SLAP! Heero Yuy backhanded me firmly, sending my vision spinning and causing bright red lights to flash in my brain. I tasted a tinge of blood as I bit my lip involuntarily.

"Never touch me," The sexpot axe murderer ordered. I knew he meant to add 'without my permission', and that made me smile, in spite of the burning sting and the cut on the inside of my lip. Oh he wanted me to touch him, but on his terms and under his psychotic orders. The thought really turned me on.

"Yes, master," I said again, more humbly.

"Stay here." And he disappeared into the shadows.

I waited for maybe twenty seconds before footsteps started to thud-thud-thud over from the direction of the crime scene. I leaned up and relaxed against the wall, pulling my baseball cap lower so that I could barely see out from under the brim. A flashlight shined into my face.

"What are you doing here?" The pig asked.

"Trying to get some sleep," I shot back, turning away from the light, acting annoyed.

A hand turned me back around. A black cop with glasses and short curly black hair glared at me. Over his shoulder a blonde leered, listening into the police frequency on a headset. The blonde looked like a rat, and the nigger reminded me of a rabid pitbull.

"That violates Article 5, Section A, of the Anti-Loitering and Squatting Laws," The black cop smiled. "You're going downtown, you shit."

"More importantly Mueller," The blonde chimed in reproachfully, "He could be connected with the robbery."

"I was getting to that, Alex!" Mueller spat back. He looked at me, angrier. "What ar-"

"UNGH!" The blonde guy grunted. His body was slammed up against the brick wall, his head smacking against the stone. He fell like a puppet cut loose from the strings, Heero's right foot still lodged next to his kidney.

"The fuck?" The black cop went for his gun, but I grabbed his hand, spinning him around and pushing him up against the wall. He bucked like a rodeo bull, cracking the back of his head into my jaw. I fell back. He whirled around, snarling, his gun out of the holster.

THWACK! Heero pistol-whipped the cop before he could do anything. The cop's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, hand's grip failing and dropping his gun. He fell face first onto the floor. I heard the bridge of his glasses snap in half.

"Come on," Heero commanded, wrapping that now familiar vice-like hand around my wrist.

Flash forward ten minutes later. Don't worry, all you missed was creeping through a couple more city blocks, scaling a twelve-foot fence (had been a little while since I'd done that. This guy was fucking crazy!), running through the deserted darkness of Royal Park and ending up at the western end of Gotham, at the desolate row of run-down houses overlooking King's Bay. The century-old wooden docks past the torn-down police tape were all rotting into the seawater. To the West you could see the lights of the boats at the New Metro Pier and the housing projects in the Metropolis Downtown. Dominating the Northwestern horizon was the massive bridge that connected the two main parts of Metro City, the Tomino-Yatate Bridge. The bridge straddled Roosevelt Island, the place I don't like to call home, but where I normally lay my head.

The run-down area where Heero and I caught our breath was in the middle of a pretty shitty Muslim community. The only good thing in that camel-jockey part of town was AliBaba's, a seedy bar at the very beginning of Seaside Avenue. I immediately suggested we head there and blend in. Besides, it was almost closing time...

"You know what I'll do if you lead anyone to me," Heero threatened as we approached the bar. Some chick was booting up a storm in an alley.

"Oh yeah! I'm gonna think about that when I jack the box tonight," I laughed him off.

"I'm serious," He growled. It was a sexy little growl, his frustration showing easily.

"If you buy me some drinks, I promise I won't tell," I turned to him. We were directly under the awnings of Yogi's Place, the boarded-up sporting center. We'd look just like anyone else taking a breath of fresh air near the bar.

The psycho-dreamboat looked cross, so I assured him, "Duo Maxwell may run, and he may hide, but he never tells a lie!"

The beautiful Asian hitman shook his head, almost in stupor at the fact that his hand was reaching into his pocketbook. "I don't have my wallet..." He muttered, still pissy about getting swiped.

"Since I'm such a good boy," My moment to shine came. I reached into one of the numerous pockets I'd cut into the inside of my coat and whipped it out, Heero's wallet that is. "I'll give it back to you."

I tossed it to the stunned psycho and swirled around, shaking my head so my braid would flutter almost right in his face. He'd follow me... I thought...

"There's $78 missing," Heero said, forcing me to turn around in disbelief. Way to kill the mood! It was clear that he had been born with his social skills exchanged for an extra bag of sexy hunk parts.

"Deal with it," I said coldly.

Heero seemed to accept this and began to follow me. I couldn't help but smile to myself as I opened the door to the bar, Jim Morrison's drunkenly bawled 'Don't You Love Her Madly' floating out onto the streets.

The stone-cold pro asked, "They have a phone in there?"

"...Yeah..." What the hell did he nee-

"I'll be right back, I have to make a call," He was holding his goddamned pager! The fucking lame, asexual piece of shit! NOW?!?

And he just walked off, just like that...

Asshole... just like everyone else...

Fuck him! Fuck that fucking asshole!

My eyes stung. It was from the sudden transition from the cold outside to the warm, smoky bar atmosphere. I blinked as I made my way towards the bar. There was almost nobody there, the trannie Muriel and his/her obese friend Sheila, two old Arab-looking men talking, and then, down towards the end of the bar, a young man.

I made my way over towards him. Don't think about Heero Yuy. Forget Heero Yuy. Goddamn it, why did I have to fucking know his name even?

Heero-fucking-perfect-Yuy! The Perfect Fucker! I didn't need that! Another asshole? Why bother getting attached? Why bother to even remember his name? No thank you!

-end "Fate is Murder in the First Degree"

part G of Page I in the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: "Fate is a Blowjob in a Bar Bathroom" Lemony, duh.

If you enjoyed, I hope you'll also review! I really do appreciate it! Hope you liked.

ID Notes:

Alex and Mueller are minor characters from Gundam Wing. They are two OZ Specials, students of Noin's, and pilot an Aries and a Cancer, respectively. They appear in only one episode in Wing and are thorough assholes. I especially hate that Mueller is the only black guy in all of the show, and he's a psychotic madman. Well, either he's the only black guy or Inspector Acht is too, but I always thought Acht was a different race. ...that guy was a crazy bastard too, and yes, he too will appear later on in the story.

References:

Gotham and Metropolis are named after the two fictional cities popularized in comic books and cartoons. Together they form the two main areas of Metro City, the setting. Refer to the map for more:

Roosevelt Island is the name I gave the island in the middle. It's based on a small island in between Queens and Manhattan by the same name.

Tomino and Yatate are the names of the creators of Gundam. Yoshiyuki Tomino wrote and directed Mobile Suit Gundam (the original), Zeta Gundam, ZZ Gundam, Char's Counterattack, Fundam f-91, Victory and Turn A Gundam.

The name Yatate is actually a collective pseudo name given to a large group of Sunrise animators and staff, who also worked on all the Gundam series.


	8. IH: Fate is Lemon in a Bar Bathroom

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined – A Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

Story with fonts and more on my homepage! (this site always messes up my fics!)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, simply fun.

Warnings: This story has a great deal of adult content in it, including: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, LEMON IN THIS CHAPTER!) cursing, drug use, violence, abuse, angst, insanity, BDSM, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Note: This is the first time I will use characters from Gundam shows other than Gundam Wing. However, the reader doesn't need to know ANYTHING about other Gundam shows, and I promise not to spoil anything. This is an AU story, the events and context of those other Gundam shows aren't worth jack here. I use these other characters as a little extra bonus for people who have seen the other Gundam shows, and because it's fun. I figure people would prefer this over the plethora of original characters I'd need to create to fill the cast of this story.

Part G of "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store", Page I in the s4 arc.

"Fate is a Blowjob in a Bar Bathroom"

Duo's POV

Fuck Heero Yuy! I was a fucking idiot for ever thinking that a stiff like that would be any kind of fun. Going off and checking his precious little pager! I'll bet he's the kind who's closest to his frigging laptop!

Well, that just won't fly, not with Duo Maxwell it won't! Its not like I was even attracte- Ok, ok. Stop, that's an obvious lie. The guy makes me pitch a tent as hard as metal. And he's aggressive and mean and would probably fuck my brains out in some kinky, neighbors call the cops cuz they think I'm being murdered, sex.

Let's just try to forget him, shall we?

I walked over to this random guy, the only one under thirty in the whole bar. He was sitting alone, nursing a beer, looking glum, the usual late-night patron. He appeared to be fairly young, but frowning guys are always hard to peg. I guessed him to be about half a foot taller than I am, with curly, reddish-brown hair and a small nose. The reddish-brown hair curled into short sideburns.

"Mind if I sit here?" I pulled out the barstool next to him.

He turned and looked at me for a long moment, eyes scanning mine with scrutiny. They were very dark brown eyes, and they were full of stories that didn't want to be told. Looking into his face I could see that he was older, probably late 20s. But he gave off that air that only someone who is very old or has seen a lot does, a sadness from understanding the world far too well for their own good. Christ I hope I never get old fast like that!

"It's fine," The stranger replied, turning back to his drink.

"Two shots of tequila, put it on my tab Enzo! I'll pay it off at the end of the night! Yes, the whole thing," I told the bartender, who recognized me immediately. I had quite a considerable tab to pay off at Alibaba's, but it wasn't quite as bad as some of the other ones I'd run up all over Metro City.

"What's your name?" I tried to make small talk with the guy.

"Amuro, Amuro Ray," He replied heavily, like the words hurt him. I caught a glimpse of something silver in his hand, through the nearly empty glass he was holding. It was small and rectangular.

"So what's a hunk like you doing all alone at a bar late at night?" I decided to make myself obvious. If this guy wasn't interested, I wanted to move on to the next one quickly.

"Just drinking," Amuro replied airily. I thought he was trying to brush me off until he said, "I haven't had a lot of free time for a while..." It sounded like the beginning of a story.

"What do you do?" I asked. It was like prying a turtle from its shell, slow, grueling jerks.

"I am- I was a Major in the Army," Amuro said. The silver object in his hand was probably a dogtag. I wondered if it was his or someone else's...

"A soldier boy!" I feigned being impressed. "Sexy!"

Amuro looked at me like I was growing horns. He shook his head, somewhere between disbelief and humility. "Not really," He said darkly. "It's actually awful."

"I'll bet it is," I answered seriously. "I was just saying that I think soldiers are sexy. I don't know, something about them just totally gets me hot." The only thing genuine about me was my directness.

Enzo put the shots on the bar, along with a little dish with salt and slices of lime. It was perfect timing. Heero was just coming out of the backroom where the telephones were. I laughed loudly at a joke that Amuro hadn't made. I was determined to make this guy jealous. Heero fucking Yuy, he was going to come crawling and I'd give him the cold shoulder, leaving him dangling like a puppet on the string of my pinky finger!

"I have to go," Heero said quickly, hardly looking at me.

"WHAT?!" I couldn't stop the shout from coming out. That fucking callous, unfeeling, asexual, clueless piece of gorgeous motherfucker!

"Oh, that's too bad," I tried to act like it was no big deal. How dare he! "Amuro and I were just going to have a few drinks and hang out together for awhile." I elbowed Amuro chummily.

"Ok. Bye," And Heero Yuy left. Just like that the fucker walks right out of my life!

Without leaving a way to contact him, without any acknowledgment of the volatile chemistry between us, without even a glimpse over his shoulder, he left. My cheeks burned and I was ready to chase him down in the streets, beat him to death and screw his rigamortis-stricken penis. I'd never been more furious with a guy in my life! He was an insensitive asshole. I wanted him so badly!

There was only one solution. "Let's do a shot," I said quickly to Amuro, pushing the tequila in front of him.

- - - - - 

You know what they say, 'Tequila makes your clothes come off' [1. Well, Amuro was really a lightweight, and it only took a few shots for him to start opening up. I had to hear all about his sob stories, the horrors of a youth in war (he'd been only 15 when he became a soldier, which didn't seem right to me), his buddies dying, his enemies retreating, the military jargon, the high tech gadgets. Seriously, only a fucked up otaku or someone with no life would have been interested by Amuro's stories!

"Fifteen years in the army, you ever get lonely?" I asked over probably our fifth or sixth drink in the hour. I still couldn't drink the image of Heero Yuy out of my head.

"Sometimes," Amuro shrugged. "There'd be whores and shit at places we'd stop at for R&R and all that. But there was only one..." He trailed off dreamily. He was a man stuck in the past.

"How about you and I have some fun?" I proposed bluntly. "Your place?" Amuro looked reluctant. I didn't have time for his angsty wishy-washiness.

I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the small Women's room. There were never any girls at a place like AliBaba's, (I know Muriel tries, but he/she well, I don't know, which gender does he/she fall into anyhow?) so the bathroom was actually pretty clean.

Amuro just stared at me. So I made the first move. I leaned forward and kissed him. He didn't really respond, lips like a dead fish. I stroked at the front of his jeans. There was definite activity in there. Even if the guy was shell-shocked, his dick still remembered how things went. I fondled it roughly, abandoning the dead-end efforts of kissing him. Amuro's dick began to grow.

I looked into his eyes. Those dark brown eyes had a faraway, vacant glaze about them, not just from the booze. I unzipped his pants and fished his dick out of his trousers. It was about 7 inches, average width and not circumcised. I jacked it in my hand, and that finally got a reaction out of Amuro. His eyes fluttered shut. His body tensed, then went slack.

And when his eyes opened, they were something different. He focused on me now, but like a cat eyes a fly it's about to chase. His lips turned into an icy sneer. This was a very different person from the forlorn, sad kid who sat at a bar by himself. This was a hardened, bitter man.

"Get on your knees," Amuro commanded. "Suck my dick." He looked at me like he'd beat the living shit out of me if I refused.

I knew what to do. I only had myself to blame, approaching a stranger, leading him into a bathroom. I knew he wasn't all-right in the head, none of those soldier boys who'd seen any sort of real action were the same when they came back. You ever see "The Deer Hunter"? It's a really fucking long movie, but that shit really shows how crazy war makes people.

"Yes, sir," I said, making the awkward situation into a joke.

"You don't need to talk." Amuro didn't think it was funny. And he certainly didn't seem crazy. He was eerily in control, even if it was like a computer operating a human body. "Just get down and do it already."

So I got down on my knees, on the floor of the bathroom in AliBaba's, and after jacking Amuro's cock to make sure I had a proper gage of its size, I stuck out my tongue and gingerly licked the tip. I licked again, then peeled back the foreskin and totally began to tongue-bathe the flare of Amuro's penis. I swirled my tongue ring ("If a girl has a pierced tongue, she'll probably suck your dick. If a guy has a pierced tongue, he'll probably suck your dick" [2) over the tip like it was candy.

Now, I'm a pretty experienced cocksucker. I mean, I've had my fair share, and probably eight others' shares as well, of cock in my mouth. I like to think I'm pretty good at it. Now, when Amuro didn't shiver or throw his head back or respond AT ALL to my initial ministrations on his schlong, I was really surprised. Not many guys can get their dick sucked by Duo Maxwell and not react in some way. Hell, most fucking shoot their load right away...

So I stopped sucking and looked up at Amuro as if to say, 'Am I doing something wrong?'

And what does he do? He asked, "Why did you stop?"

"Um, no reason, I-" I really didn't know what to say!

"Then keep going," Amuro ordered.

And, as if I didn't know what to do, he took his hands, grabbed me roughly by the hair, and forced his dick down my throat. And I don't mean just into my mouth, I mean all the way down my throat. I was taken by surprise and gagged, coughing around the meat choking me. Tears swam in front of my eyes. I tried to back off of Amuro's dick.

He wasn't going to let me off. Amuro's hands were clapped to my head like a vice, and he started fucking my face with long, deliberate stabs. He was much stronger than he looked. He smashed my nose into his pubes, cockhead popping into my throat. He would slowly pull me backwards by my hair until only the tip was resting on my tongue. Then he would force-feed me his dick again.

In-out, in-out, in-out, in-out. I started to breathe through my nose (I had to!) and flick at the slit of his cock when just the tip was in my mouth. I was quickly able to accommodate Amuro's length. In-out, in-out. It was really a very boring blowjob.

I reached up to stroke his cock, when it wasn't crammed down my mouth. He quickly batted my hand away. Amuro wasn't having any of it. He was in charge, and things were going to go his way. Amuro was in total control, which was fine with me. I like dominant guys, and Amuro's tough-guy act was actually starting to turn me on.

Amuro began to speed up. He announced this by suddenly pulling my hair forward again around the time I usually swabbed his flare with my tongue. The constant gurgling sound of his dick raking my wet mouth, the flap of his balls against my chin were the only sounds in the room. The wet see-saw sound was loud in my ears, obviously cuz it was me with the dick in my mouth. Amuro's cock started to leak precum. It pooled together with the spit gathered in my mouth. I couldn't swallow, obviously...

Faster, in-out in-out in-out. Amuro fucked my face like it was an inanimate object. A little faster. Gurgle gurgle gurgle. A gob of spit and precum began to leak out of my mouth. I made a motion to wipe it away, but Amuro slapped my hand down again. His dick was shining with my cocksucking juices, reflecting the light from the ceiling. The gob dripped onto my shirt. In-out in-out. Faster, faster. The precum flowed faster from Amuro's cock, the salty taste so familiar to my mouth.

You know, after a while a blowjob just starts to hurt the neck of whoever is giving head. That and the jaw starts to get mighty sore. And Amuro wasn't showing any signs of finishing any time soon.

As I was used to service the soldier's dick, my mind began to wander. I began to hope that the 24/7 store would get a new gay porn sometime soon. I began wondering if all rich kids weren't totally spoiled brats like Quatre Winner was. I was wondering how far that Chinese kid had run away from the police, and if he'd reveal Heero's identity. I thought about the fact that I was an eyewitness to the homicide of a Metro City police officer. My parole officer would not like that...

Goddamn, Amuro still wasn't done yet! If I could use my hands, a quick finger up his ass would probably do the trick. The prostate is a wondrous thing.

But Amuro was getting there. The precum began to get thicker, the thrusts faster and less accurate. I could actually hear Amuro's breath now. His cock pulsed and twitched, usually when it bottomed out in my throat. His balls were drawing together, ready to spew baby batter down my slut-pipe. I know what you're thinking, what's with the porno language? You think this is bad you should get inside my head for a day. It'll make you want to join the priesthood.

I started to suck like I really meant it. I rolled my tongue against Amuro's shaft. I began to suck harder, applying more pressure. But it was really all out of my control. Amuro was now pistoning in and out of my mouth at about as fast as I think a dick can go.

"Umph," Amuro grunted. How romantic.

He grabbed the back of my head and absolutely speared my face onto his pole. His hips began to shake, his eyes closed. The log of flesh in my mouth began to shake and jerk involuntarily, swelling. Amuro's cock lurched in my mouth and unceremoniously coated my throat with his first load of seed. It lurched again, another rope of jizz, this time straight down my throat. I began to swallow, pharynx muscles gripping Amuro Ray tightly. He probably shot five or six jets of sperm straight into my stomach. A protein filled midnight snack.

Amuro pulled his dick out. I took a grateful breath through my mouth (finally) and the air burned my abused throat. He looked down at me with blank, expressionless eyes. Yeah, it was great for me too honey. Thanks for asking.

Then he tried to clean his dick off with my hair. That was the last straw.

"No!" I yelled, croaked rather. Speech was going to be hard on my ravaged voicebox.

And somehow that brought Amuro, the real human being Amuro, back to Earth. His eyes lost that vacant gaze, darting around confusedly like someone emerging from a trance.

"I, I'm sorry," He stuttered suddenly. "I don't know what came over me, it just-"

"It's fine," I told him. I really just wanted to get out of there. "It's fine."

"I'm sorry," Amuro said again. "I'll- I'll pay for your drinks."

"Go ahead," I told him, getting to my feet. My knees creaked, protesting being subjected to the hard tile floor for so long. "I have to take a piss. Be right out."

I waited for Amuro to leave. I shook my head, hocked a creamy loogie into the sink and snuck out the bathroom window. It didn't really matter if Amuro paid for my drinks tonight or not, there was no way I was going to pay my tab.

-end Duo's POV

-end "Fate is a Blowjob in a Bar Bathroom", Part H

-end "Fate Works at a 24/7 Convenience Store", Page I in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: Page II "Wonder What's Next". Page II will be more about the individual characters' lives and routines, as well as getting deeper into the setting of the story, Metro City.

Zechs gets the next chapter.

Feedback is greatly appreciated!

Also, my homepage has quite a bit of info and extras about the story, so make sure to drop on by!

ID Notes:

Amuro Ray is the main character in the original Gundam series, Mobile Suit Gundam. He is a young mechanic/engineering student who happens to come across the Gundam and get sucked into the war between Zeon and the Earth Federation. Here I've portrayed him as a young, but veteran, soldier who has seen one too many battles.

Notes:

[1 Not only is this a phrase I've heard said many times before, but there's actually a song now that's called "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off", by some country singer called Joe Nichols. It's not that good a song, but worth a laugh.

[2 This is a direct quote from Chris Rock's "There's No Sex in the Champagne Room". That man is hilarious, and that quote is just so fitting for slutty Duo.


	9. Page II: Wonder What's Next

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons, mostly 1x2, 3x4 and some implied 13x6) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd see on the street is now in your fanfiction!

Note: Once again, I refer you to my website for info about the story, particularly the maps which are a great help in enjoying the AU. II: Wonder what's next.

Part A "Report to the 106th Precinct, Attention: Captain Zechs Merquise".

Zechs's POV

Inter-departmental Correspondence

For Metro Police Officers and City Officials ONLY

Re-transmission or reiteration of enclosed information to unqualified peoples is a Class B Felony and will result in severance, without pay, from the Metro Police Department and a precinct investigation.

To: Captain Zechs Merquise

106th Precinct

Metro Police Department

609 Rolling Hills Plaza

Gotham, XX 0606-13

From:Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin

109th Precinct

Metro Police Department

F Building

2nd Floor

Royal Bluff, XX 0909-11

Subject: Report on Armed Robbery and 106th Casualties

Date:3:59 AM12/17/--

Enclosures: (2)

Zechs,

I must apologize for the informal nature of this report. You will receive the full, department-endorsed report in a week, maybe two. In the mean time I believe we owe it to the 106th to give you as much information as we have on the robbery and the events that transpired immediately after the Quik Stop Convenience Store, located at 46-90 Second Avenue (near intersection of Second and 25th Street) in Gotham XX, was surrounded.

A member of your 106th Precinct, Joseph Doe Oz, was shot and killed. A letter from Decorated Captain Une is attached

Three officers were injured. Two members of the 109th were knocked unconscious in an alley off of First Avenue, near Royal Park's eastern entrance. Otto L. Barbuta, of your 106th, exchanged fire with one of the criminals and sustained two gunshot wounds. A bullet lodged itself in the lower region of his spinal column. The doctors at Aeirith Hospital inform me that, as of now, he will need surgery to remove the bullet and that there has been extensive damage to his nervous system. The head of surgery told me in confidence that he believes it is unlikely Otto will be able to walk again.

I am very sorry Zechs.

I apologize for the failure of my unit in apprehending the criminals. Two men, one masked, another not, took two hostages and exited through an old emergency exit. A fifth, Wufei Chang, a student at the University, was forced at gunpoint to be a decoy and was stopped near his dormitory. Mr. Chang claims he never got a good look at either suspect's face.

The cashier who we found inside says he was tortured by one of the perpetrators, but is uncooperative with providing details. I believe he thinks his life will be in danger if he identifies the criminals. He is currently under police protection at Aeirith Hospital.

The only security camera in the building was destroyed. Our lab is trying to repair the damaged tape, but we will probably need assistance from Federal. A bullet slug was taken from the camera. Sergeant Walker of the 106th claims that the bullet in the camera is not the same type as the ones recovered from the alley where Otto and Oz were shot. As you know, he is one of the best ballistics experts in Metro.

Of the two cars parked nearby, one was registered to Mr. Quatre Winner who was possibly taken hostage. The second car's license is a fake, as is the registration. It is not clear whom the second car belongs to or how it is connected with the robbery. It has been impounded at the 111th Precinct garage.

That is all for now,

Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin, 109th Precinct

P.S. I want to find these guys as much as you. But please don't push yourself too hard like you always do.

Dear Captain Merquise,

Everyone here at the 111th Metropolitan Precinct has their thoughts and prayers with the brave men and women of the 106th Precinct at this time. It has recently come to our attention that Joseph Doe Oz, officer with the 106th, has fallen in the line of duty while defending the freedoms and ensuring the peace of this great country's citizens. His distinguished services will serve as a guideline by which every member of the Metro Police Department will try to live by. His memory will not be forgotten. The best way to honor –

I dropped the papers. Reading any further was pointless, and I cared not to do it. The papers landed on a heap of other papers, forms, copies of photographs, copies of copies of faxes. I needed to sign all of them, and though they had been editted (edited) and checked by at least three other officers, I insisted on looking over the final version before it came out.

You see, every letter, memo, report, etc., had my name on it. I had not produced any of the words, harbored none of the ideals, and yet my name was to go on everything, my signature the 'stamp' of approval. I tried to read everything that came across my desk, but doing that and keeping up with the several cases and investigations I was currently heading up proved daunting at times.

I rubbed my neck through the length of platinum blonde hair and took a gulp from my coffee mug. The coffee was cold. My neck and back were sore. I had spent the entire day trapped behind my desk. I had not moved other than to go to the bathroom and give the daily briefing to the men. My doctor warned me the pains in my back and my frequent headaches were signs I was overworking.

And now, a different kind of pain. A completely new nemesis. Metro, the largest city in the world, constantly offered new adversaries. You lock up one rapist, one drug dealer, and a new one comes in from overseas, a child becomes a gang member, a man murders his wife. The underground, the shadowy figures, never come clearly into focus unless it's to destroy something innocent or beautiful. And I'm left taking shots into the darkness, only praying that what I kill is the real enemy.

It hurts, playing by the rules. The greatest foe is the self. I've tied my hands, severely crippling the chances of catching the culprit, by obeying the rules and keeping vigil to the laws. But it is beginning to wear me thin. I can only wonder sometimes, might I need to become like the bastards I hunt in order to track them down? Is breaking the law the only way to uphold it?

This time, for Otto's sake, I might just break a few of the rules...

-end Zechs' POV

-end Report to the 106th, Attention: Capt. Zechs Merquise. Part A of Page II.

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: Same Shit, Different Day, Quatre's.

ID Notes:

Otto (helps develop the Tallgeese, does a suicide run on the Alliance held Sanq Kingdom stronghold, friend of Zechs) never has a last name in Gundam Wing. I just made up Otto L. Barbuta, because a barbuta is a helmet, and I always thought of him as protecting Zechs. For a great fanfic about Otto, read Hope of Dawn's "Fealty" series, at LINK

Joe Oz is nobody. He's just a name I gave to represent one of the countless OZ soldiers killed by the Gundam Wing pilots.

Decorated Captain Une is the same Une from Gundam Wing. She is the head of the Metro City Police Department in this story.

You have to know who Noin is. Here she's also in the police force (but at a different precinct than Zechs).

References: "Wonder What's Next" is the title of a very good CD by Chevelle. I use it as the title for Page II because even I didn't know what was coming next in this story until I started working on these parts.


	10. IIB: Same Shit, Different Day: Quatre's

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

Please visit my homepage for the fully fonted version and more!

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons, mainly 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you can find out in the world is now in your fanfiction!

Annotation Note: Flashback moments are enclosed in ... s.

Part B of Page II, "Wonder Whats Next", in the s4 arc.

"Same Shit, Different Day: Quatre's."

Quatre's POV

I whacked the snooze button before the obnoxious sound could torture me a fourth time. I lay there for a moment, with my hand on the alarm, trying to remember my dreams, trying to understand if the bizarre images in my head were fantasy or fact. I could not remember my dream or if I had even had one.

However, I could remember being robbed last night. I could remember the faces of the four men in the store, their crude and plain lack of upbringing. It was almost like a dream, but too vivid, too real. I could remember running down the alleys, the sound of gunfire, the feeling of a hand gripped firmly around my neck. Trowa...

"I'm certainly no celebrity like a Winner, so you'll probably forget my name. It's Trowa."

Trowa.

I hadn't dreamt it. I hadn't forgotten.

As I took my hand off the alarm I grabbed the pack of cigarettes, tousling my hair a little before opening up the container. Only three were missing. I hadn't picked a Lucky, the fabled cigarette in each pack that you ordain by flipping it so that it's in the opposite position from all the rest, filter down, tobacco up. You're supposed to save your Lucky for a special occasion, or when you really need to have good luck. It was bullshit superstition, totally meaningless to most.

// Especially when you smoke two packs a day //

But I did it anyway, picking out a jack from the second row, smack in the middle, removing and reinserting it with great ease. I pulled out a different cigarette.

Still in bed, I rummaged through a drawer in the mahogany nightstand, finally coming across matches. I took one out and struck it against the back of the bundle, the comforting scent hitting my nostrils. The flame almost went out, but I was quick to light the Benson & Hedges in my hand.

I threw the matches onto the nightstand, taking a puff and staring hard at the packaging.

"Why were you so crazy about getting those cigarettes? It was dangerous, and stupid."

//Because you know they're bad for you. Because you're a bad boy//

I gently lay the pack atop the alarm, flicking it from 'Snooze' to 'Off'. I threw the covers to the floor, feet tickled slightly by the plush carpet as I got up. I stood and stared out the window, the city already bustling and teeming with life, the sun low in the East, blocked by the Cosmos' building.

Take care of yourself, Quatre.

I went and turned on the water for the shower. While waiting for it to get hot I made a phone call.

"Master Quatre," The gruff, but reverent voice on the other line came after no more than two rings.

"Rashid, I need you to contact my credit card company and tell them I've lost my card, same with my bank card."

"You never came home last ni- "

"Thank you Rashid," I hung up the phone. Rashid was a good man, but I had no doubt he only cared about me because of my father. He seemed sincere, but I couldn't imagine he'd be so good to me unless he wanted some part of my family's, Father's, fortune. His people owed their survival to his actions, but I could never understand those primitive tribal alliances. No, it had to be the money. That's what almost everyone was after.

//But Rashid probably deserves more than you. At least he does some good for the family//

I stripped down and jumped into the steamy swelter of the shower. I didn't even turn on any cold water, just let the scalding jets of water scorch my skin, clearing my sinuses and cleaning all the dirt away.

-----

I had only twenty minutes to get across town to where the Winner International Enterprises headquarters was located. Walking was out of the question and the subways and buses were for Joe Schmoe, not me. I'd probably get mugged again! Problem was, I was at my seaside apartment all the way on the western tip of Gotham, overlooking King's Bay and my car... was probably still outside the 24/7 store...

So I called a private car company. They said it would be at least fifteen minutes before they could get a car to the building where my penthouse condo was. I dropped my father's name. The car was there in three.

I gave the driver his 15 tip, though he hadn't cleaned the back seat for some time and I had to pick dozens of lint balls off my grey Alex Cannon. I rode the elevator to the 44th floor, the highest level that non-board members and executives could enter.

I powered on my computer, closed the drapes a little. The maids or whoever cleaned the office at night always left them wide open, the rising sun streaming through and burning my neck. I chose to sit facing away from the window, something all cubicle-bound staff were puzzled and a bit repugnant about. I could look out the window all day at the city and the ships coming and going in Prospect Bay, the sight-seeing helicopters from Gotham Harbor, the oncoming air traffic approaching Zeon Airport and finally, only on the clearest of days, the rolling hills and treelines of Suburbia, across the Avalon Bridge. That was my favorite thing to stare at. But if there was too much smog or mist and on overcast days I had to contend myself with watching the flocks of birds around the Gotham Harbor Park, crowding together on the few trees amidst the concrete towers.

I ended up doing just that today, staring out vacantly at the beauty of that small oasis of natural beauty. I don't know how long it was for, but my trance was broken by the sudden ringing of my phone.

"Winner Enterprises," I said dreamily, still half-staring out the window. "Quatre Winner speaki-"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!"

"I- um-" I didn't know what to say. I never received such indignant abuse.

//Cuz they know you're going to be rich when father dies//

"ARE YOU WATCHING THE MARKET AT ALL!?!?" The fury-warped voice was George de Sand's. He was the most important client I had ever been given, receiving the thousand-page portfolio only a week ago.

//He has enough money already, and probably won't outlive father. So, to him you're just a piece of shit in his teeth//

I stared stupidly at my computer screen, at the quiet flat-screen, HD TV installed on the wall opposite my desk. I quickly typed in my user name and password. Then another password. My access clearance was a 2. I was the only non-board member with a 2. The highest level of clearance was 1. Only father had a 1.

"I- Um- How are you doing today Mr. de Sand?" I stalled for time while all the programs loaded. I had 33 unread e-mails, 8 blinking 'URGENT'. The real-time stock ticker was still loading.

"I'M LOSING ALL MY MONEY YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SNOT!" George de Sand roared, undoubtedly spitting all over his phone. An urgent red exclamation point popped up as the stock ticker loaded.

! de Sand, George P. ! I clicked on it.

"I told you to sell Zodiac Pharmaceuticals if it dipped under 130!" I was holding the receiver a full foot away from my ear. "IT'S AT 110! 109! 109 YOU GOOD FOR NOTHING BRAT!"

I watched the money trickling away from de Sand's account. Zodiac was an up-and-coming, new R & D company. It had been in the papers a lot recently for its controversial testing policies, but its products boasted three of the Top Five new drugs of the year. de Sand had wanted to diversify out of the conventional stocks and slow-growth banks he'd invested most of his fortune in. Zodiac had seemed like a pricey risk at 160 a share, but nobody doubted their ability to deliver groundbreaking drugs.

"SELL IT YOU STUPID BASTARD!!! SELL IT!!!" He was screaming himself horse.

All of this could have been avoided if de Sand hadn't been such an old-fashioned bastard. Nowadays you can put stop-loss orders on most stocks, automatically selling them once they hit a certain low point. But de Sand would often complain that he 'didn't trust' computerized processes. Now he was in the red a few million because of that...

Knock Knock Knock. The raps came at a polite volume, just enough to catch a person's attention if they were on the phone or watching TV. They were paced politely, obviously saying, 'Don't hurry, but this is important.'

"SELL!!!"

"I have to make some calls Mr. de Sand. Goodbye." And I hung up despite his curses and protests.

I needed time to think. Exactly a minute went by. Zodiac was at 107. de Sand had lost eighty million dollars already.

Knock Knock Knock. The same perfect pace and volume.

I hated Dorothy Catalonia.

I picked up the phone and hit the speed-dial to Abdul's cell phone. I wanted to seem busy and hard at work, but also in control of things when she came in.

//You? Fool her? She's the definition of 'in control'//

"Come in," I collected myself and tried to sound cool.

The definition of cool and collected walked into my office, dressed in the most official, respectable-looking business suit a woman could wear in hot pink. Her golden blonde hair was tucked behind her ears, corralled by two pink hair clips. Her suit pants and shoes were pink. Her tie had pink and gold stripes, a wide, fat tie that was currently fashionable for men. Her buttoned down shirt was plain white, making the tie and the suit's pink flare even greater. She smiled at me pleasantly, without any genuine friendliness, a habit of manners.

"How are you today Mr. Winner?" She always called me 'Mr. Winner' despite being the same age as I. She put down a slim stack of papers on my desk, they were held together by a pink paper clip. "I thought you might be interested in this," She said, that self-assured smugness creeping into her voice. "Of course, you've probably already seen it..." This last was said with rank condescension.

I eyed her for a moment, trying to figure out my best response. It was always a duel with Dorothy. She had found me today in terrible shape, frantic and exasperated. She would use it against me, undoubtedly. There was no such thing as mercy to Dorothy Catalonia. She waited for me with a smile. She was on the offensive.

"Thank you Dorothy," I said as sweetly as I could. Her smile widened. I had to err on the side of caution. I was already bound to get a black eye over the Zodiac fiasco, it was time to cut my losses and try not to get another.

The title of the first page Dorothy had set down read, "Zodiac charged in criminal lawsuit over lab testing policies and use of third-trimester fetuses." The last part was the most surprising. It was illegal to use any unborn 'human material' for research once four months after fertilization had passed. I had never heard anything about Zodiac doing that.

What it meant was that Zodiac had stopped all its research and that was causing the plummet.

Abdul finally picked up. "Quatre-sama!" He had to shout over the roar of the frenzy. Abdul was a trader at the international stock market center, on Capital Street, right across from the Cosmos' building. He was always in the swirling sea of 'Buy!' and 'Sell!' ruckus of scrambling traders, like pigs fighting over the best share of the slop bucket, but dressed in designer suits.

"Abdul!" I yelled loudly, hoping he could hear me. "You need to sell George de Sand's Zodiac stock! Sell de Sand's Zodiac! You understand?!!?"

"Eh eh em," Dorothy cleared her throat pointedly.

"Hang on a minute, Abdul," I said into the phone. I looked at Dorothy, unable to hide a scowl.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," She said with a slight shake of her head, like a mother reprimanding an ignorant child.

"George de Sand just called and told me to sell," I growled right back. My hands were tied. "Time to cut losses."

"How much money has he lost already?" Dorothy asked. "$80 million?" She never asked a question without knowing its answer ahead of time.

"He told me to sell," I barked back. She was always telling me-

//Because you need someone to hold your hand, little Quatre. That's why you let her in. That's why you'll listen to her. She's smarter than you//

"I won't tell you what to do with your clients," Dorothy said, feigning modesty, an emotion she only knew the act, not feel, of. "But if things end up with you selling now, you'll lose the de Sand account."

"Start selling Abdul," I ordered heatedly, slamming down the receiver. Fuck her!

//Oh, so that's how it's going to be? Won't let anyone trample on your pride will you? Easy to take it out on her or Abdul isn't it? But Father will know whose fault it is//

"Between you and me," Dorothy leaned forward, cocking her head to get a new angle to enjoy the suffering evident on my face, "The board is grumbling that you're not cut out to take over for your father."

//He isn't//

I'm not...

"And that you've been riding your inheritance, living it up on your father's name and money."

// The good for nothing wouldn't be anything without father! Look how he squanders his wealth //

I do just leech off of father. I never do a thing on my own...

"And at the next monthly meeting they'll ask your father to assign you to Seattle, and to consider electing one of the board member's when he steps down."

//They should! Send the little worm out to rot in Seattle, or Shanghai or wherever! He's only ever been a burden anyway//

I don't deserve to inherit the family-business... They can send me to whereve-

"Wait!" I stopped. Something had popped the shame and guilt, shining like a needle. I had to know. "How did you hear that? Board meeting minutes are only available to board members and-" I stopped. I knew how Dorothy had found out about the board meeting minutes.

"They gave you level 2 access!" I said loudly.

//And she deserves it, while you...//

But surely she wasn't on the board now?

Dorothy nodded, a genuine smile of triumph coming into her face. "I'm not on the board, yet," She stressed the last word importantly. "But you shouldn't sell all of de Sand's Zodiac. It will come back. This is only a temporary loss."

"But he told me to sell," I looked apprehensively at the stock ticker. Zodiac hadn't budged from 107. Maybe it wasn't going to drop any lower, maybe it was even going to turn around today. "He said-"

"Quatre, we manage people's money because we know how to secure it and make more for them than they do," Dorothy spoke to me like I was a child in her Pre-K class. "And Zodiac will either change their testing policy or the suit will be settled quietly. Rau le Cruz is Zodiac's CEO, and he has millions of friends in high places, including Senator Dullindal. He boasts that the first line of their performance enhancement drugs for children are past testing stages. They'll make billions off that alone. In fact, this is a great opportunity to buy some more Zodiac; the price won't ever get this low again."

I picked up the phone. Dorothy was right. She was always right... I never was. I called Abdul and asked, "How much of the de Sand stock have you managed to dump?" I waited. Dorothy smiled and began to leave. "Uh-huh," I didn't even pay attention to Abdul's answer. "Stop selling Abdul. No, I know what I told you earlier. No. Listen, just stop selling, even if it goes lower. Yeah. Yeah, thanks Abdul."

I hung up the phone. Dorothy was gone. The office door clicked shut. I sat down and put my head in my hands. I felt like crap. I needed a cigarette. I could feel my father's shame pressing down on me from seven stories above my head. Tears began to blur my vision.

The phone rang. Father wanted to have a talk with me, in his office, immediately.

I hung up. I lit a cigarette, despite the no-smoking policy in the building. After a few calming puffs, still not enough, I don't think the entire pack would have been enough, I felt a little better. I snubbed the cigarette out and went to face my father.

-----

For most of the time my father sat and sternly reproached me for not being on top of things, of my lapses in concentration, my inability to handle bigger clients, my lack of effort outside of paid hours.

I nodded and nodded and apologized and kept my head down. I don't even know what I said.

//You're a bad boy Quatre, a very bad boy. It's all your fault. It's your fault. To think of all the trouble Father and mommy went through to have a son... And for it to come out like you... If only you were a shadow of the man Father is... If only you hadn't been born...//

I tried to block out the thoughts. But I never could. So, instead I thought about the events of last night, so much like a dream. I knew the police would seek me out. I knew the sinister Japanese killer would put me down like the dog I was if I told them anything. Maybe that would be best? No. No that would be the coward's way out... That would make Iria and my sisters sad.

I kept thinking about what Trowa had said. Most of the night had been like a blur to me, but those handful of minutes after we'd eluded the police...

Are you going to go to the police about me? I had to take my mask off, it would attract too much attention here on the subways. And I don't think you're the type to talk. No, I don't know why.

Take care of yourself, Quatre .

-----

And when I did get home, the police were there. A serious female with short, dark lilac-tinted hair introduced herself to me as Lieutenant Noin. She asked me if I was OK, if I had been hurt in the robbery last night. It was an obvious formality.

I told her I was fine; I'd even been able to go to work today.

She said she was glad for that, but feigned concern over my stolen wallet and watch.

I told her it was a small price to pay.

She asked me about the two gunmen, if I'd seen their faces, if I could describe their appearances, if I could identify their voices if (she said 'when' ) they were captured, if I knew anything about them at all. She said a young police officer was dead and another currently hospitalized.

He was maybe six feet tall, maybe a bit shorter. He was strong, but quite skinny, almost gangly because of his long legs. He had flaxen light brown hair combed over half of his face, the bangs pointing towards his heart like daggers. He had a small, pointed nose. His eyebrows were thin, his jaw protruding less than an inch, also pointy in the front. He never smiled... His eyes were usually narrowed in serious demeanor, emerald pools tranquil and still.

His name was Trowa.

I told the police that, unfortunately, I couldn't help them.

-end Quatre's POV

-end part B, "SSDD: Same Shit, Different Day: Quatre", of Page II in Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Hope you enjoyed, please send feedback to Part C. "Bad Habits – Heero's – Gambling"


	11. IIC: Bad Habits: Heero's: Gambling

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

Visit my homepage for more!

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (lots of pairings, though primarily 1x2 and 3x4, graphic lemons in some parts, but nothing more than shounen-ai for right now) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part C of Act II, "Wonder Whats Next" in the s4 arc.

"Bad Habits – Heero's – Gambling"

Heero's POV

I was big blind.

I go in two blue chips, $100. I have only seven red chips, $20 a piece, and one blue chip remaining. Blues are worth $50. The white chips, worth $1, have all been traded in. At this late stage of the game they're more of a nuisance to count than anything else. If you're playing now, you're playing each hand for $100, minimum.

The two remaining players hungrily eye my small stack of chips. They're about even with one another. I'm the runt on the table, and was just forced to play a hand. They're both looking to take me out, not leave me hanging around where I can hurt their chances.

The game is Texas Hold'Em. Each player gets two cards, face down. Bets are made, starting with the big blind (that was me) placing the smallest wager possible ($100 at this point in the game). Then the Flop, the first three cards are brought out, face up. Bets again. The Turn, a fourth card is added, face up. Bets again. The River, the fifth and final up card. Last bets. The person who can make the best 5-card poker hand out of the Up cards and his/her own two wins the pot for that hand. Rinse, repeat. Simple, right?

I love poker. It is war meets Monopoly, except the money is real and your opponent can't see where you've got Hotels, Houses or anything. Deception is encouraged. This is what I do on a Friday night when I don't have someone to kill, which I also enjoy.

Both opponents throw in $100. They wait for me to Check (not bet and continue), or Raise the bet. With the meager amount of chips I have left, the only way I can continue and not reveal my hand is by Checking. A Raise would be too bold.

What are my cards? Haha, like I'd give that away...

I knock on the felt table, the signal for checking. The dealer burns a card and is about to unveil the Flop.

The thing about poker that gets me going, that makes my blood boil, is the mortality. In bullets and explosives I am like a god, like Jack sitting across from me is a god at smuggling, and King, well I really don't know what King does. But it doesn't matter. At the poker table everyone is equal. A peasant can beat a chancellor, a fool could outplay Einstein. We all enter the room, hanging up our business with our coats, losing any identity. We all throw in the same amount of money. Tonight, as every night, any of us might walk away with the money, and, more importantly, the glory.

A 3 of Spades, a 9 of Spades, a King of Hearts. The Flop.

The cards are God for poker players. You're just randomly handed the lot cast to you.

"I'll check," King, the first to bet, says. It is my turn.

The rest is up to the player.

I believe King is trying to bait me into staying in this hand. He might have a Spade, giving him the prospective Flush chance, or some combination of high cards towards a Straight. He might have two cards that are already out there, or he might have two cards of the same kind hidden in his hand. He might have nothing.

"I'll check," I say softly. I decide it's best to also act as if I have nothing.

It is Jack's turn. Jack is touching his chips. It's a Tell, a player's habit that surfaces in certain situations. Jack's Tell is touching his chips. It means he wants to bet. It means he has something.

Then Jack grins, a universal Tell that the next thing he is about to do is a lie in some shape or form. "I'll check." He shrugs, comically disheartened. King chuckles; he sees it too.

Poker is a war of wits. All physical aspects of the game have some sort of downside to them, some sort of taboo or wrinkle in them. Always holding your cards in your hand is taboo, reeking of an attempt at cheating. Facial expressions, smiles, frowns, mouths opening, biting the lip are all give aways of what the player is thinking. A good one will start reading an opponent's facial expressions like a book. Touching your chips is a Tell. Checking one's cards indicates a poor memory and excitement at the recently emerged cards. Your eyes betray you constantly. Touching another person's chips can get you killed.

The Turn is a Queen of Spades. If any player has two Spades in their hand, they now have a Flush. I don't have a Flush, I'll tell you that much.

"$100," King bets. He's hard to read. He didn't bet at the two initial Spades... why bet now?

"I call." I throw in $100. I only have $90 left, not even enough to make an independent bet next turn.

"I'll put you All-In." Jack jumps at it, pushing in $190, to call the initial bet and make me bet everything.

"I'm still playing too, ya know," King reminds him, adding $90 of his own.

I have to go All-In. I wouldn't be allowed to play the next game with less than $100, the big blind. My hand has been forced... or so I let them think. Grudgingly, I put in the last of my chips. All that's left in front of me are my two cards, face down. I'm still not telling you what I have.

It is time for the last card, the River. I've seen fortunes made, carefully laid plans destroyed, and infinite tears, sweat and blood shed over the River card. It can change the game, just like that. You might be sure, be absolutely 100 sure that you know you're going to win, and then a River card comes out that turns your world upside down. In a poker game it is the final act of God.

God selects a 4 of Clubs. Quite anti-climactic.

Now comes the most interesting part of the game. All the players now know what they have. There's no more hope, no more prayers, only cold hard facts. If you don't have shit at this point, you're one crazy and/or ballsy motherfucker to continue bluffing. The only thing left to speculate on is what everyone else might have.

"Raise you $500." King smiles at Jack. He's confident he has this hand in the bag.

"...fuck you," Jack spits. Jack isn't ballsy or crazy. That makes him about mediocre right now. "I fold."

"How bout you kid?" King asks me. "What you got?"

I flip my two cards. Jack whistles. Two Aces, one a Spade, the other a Heart. That's considered the absolute best hand God could ever give you to start a poker game.

King shakes his head, breathing out. It's like taking that first breath after the roller coaster comes to a halt. "Sorry kid," he says, flipping. "I got 3-of-a-kind."

He does, he has three 3s.

"Good game," I say honestly, getting up and stretching. My armpits are rank with the odor of perspiration. It's two in the morning. I have to assist in a kidnapping at 7:30. It won't be half as fun as a game of poker. I sigh.

I leave the building. The streets are deserted, a soft drizzle the only noise. Then a siren starts up.

I go to a 24-7 store and buy some Lotto tickets. I've never won, but I do love to play...

-end Bad Habits – Heero's – Gambling.

Part C of Page II in the "Sex Substances Sin Salvation" arc.

Next: Press conference: Robert Darlian promises to crack down on crime!

ID Notes:

King and Jack are just made up, obviously named after the cards. They won't appear again.


	12. IID: To crack down on crime!

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

Visit my homepage for more!

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (lots of pairings and lemons, primarily 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the good stuff from real life, now in your fanfiction!

Part D of Page II: "Wonder Whats Next" in the s4 arc

"Press Conference: DA Robert Darlian vows to crack down on crime!"

3rd person POV

Press Conference: DA Robert Darlian vows to crack down on crime!

Backdrop: Plain blue cloth bearing the symbol of Metro City. On the right is the nation's flag, on the right the state's. At center is a brown podium bearing the crest that is also embossed on City Hall and most municipal documents. It is a man, left hand outstretched towards the sky, palm open, clutching balanced scales in the right. Behind him is the oldest known map of Metro.

Lights cued. Sound checked. Reporters fall silent.

District Attorney Robert Alan Darlian approaches the podium.

Recording devices switched on, cameras rolling.

"Hello and good morning to the people of Metro City."

Flash and clicks of cameras.

"Today, once again, I am here to address the number one concern that has plagued the people of Metro City for far too long: crime!"

Fist clenched, serious face, pause for pictures.

"Violent crime is the number one cause of death in Metro. Robbery and fraud has accounted for billions of dollars in losses, yearly. The cost of judicial and disciplinary handling is also astronomic. Metro is in a crisis, and I say that the time for action has come!"

Applause.

"Now, as some of you know, Mayor Duke Dermail has recently come under fire for personal issues that will not be addressed here. It is possible that he will not finish his term in office." Continuing, over murmurs, "And that is why I, as District Attorney of Metro City, am proposing several changes in order to combat the scourge of crime."

"I ask the members of the City Council and other lawmakers to consider the following changes in laws and procedures:"

"First: Changing from a three strike system to a two strike system, resulting in life in jail, for two time Class B Felony offenders.

"Second: Denial of parole or time off for good behavior to those two strike offenders, as well as three strike offenders and criminals currently serving life sentences.

"Third: An increase in the police force, in the form of an additional 3,000 police officers.

"Fourth: Giving phone tap licenses to-"

And so on and on go the talking heads on television. Most people are watching the Weather or the daily traffic watch. The rest are watching Springer.

But for those who pay attention, it is clear that change is in the air in Metro City.

-end Press Conference, DA Robert Darlian vows to crack down on crime!

Part D of Page II in "Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

Next: "There's no Place like Home – Trowa's."

ID Notes:

Darlian is Relena's 'father' in the early parts of Gundam Wing. He took in Relena from the ruins of Sanq, and is killed for being linked to Operation Meteor by Lady Une. He was only addressed by his title (or called 'father') in the TV show, so I took the liberty of giving him a full name. I think he really looks like a Robert.

Duke Dermail is the acting head of Romafeller Foundation in Gundam Wing. He is at the crux of most of the political events in the show. Here he is the long-time mayor of Metro City.

A DA (District Attorney) is an elected official who represents his government in prosecuting criminals. There can be DAs on local and federal levels. Darlian is a DA for Metro City, making his a local (but massive and important) jurisdiction.


	13. IIE: No Place Like Home: Trowa's

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (mainly 1x2 and 3x4, includes graphic sexual content in parts) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part E of Page II: "Wonder Whats Next" in the s4 arc

There's no Place Like Home – Trowa's

Trowa's POV

I woke to the buzzing noise of a fly's wings. My eyes fluttered open. It was one of those high pitched zszsz sounds, the fly that is, not me, the ones from the tiny bugs that only really like to lay next to a halogen light. There were no lights on in my room. Thin strips of brightness were streaking from the space in-between the door and the wall, breaking in from the apartment complex hallway on the other side.

It was impossible to tell if it was light or dark outside. What day was it even? It didn't matter. Who cared what day it was? Or what time? If I couldn't remember, then it couldn't be that important. Just like whatever dream I had just had. It too was wiped gone clean, not even a tiny nothing remaining from the long rest I'd just gotten.

The red electric numbers on my bedside clock read 88:88 APM. The damn thing never worked. With that and the bed sheets covering the window, I always lost track of the time... The fly buzzed off.

I listened to it fly away, the soft buzzing my single focus. Shutting my eyes again, smothered under the heavy blankets, I remembered something like a warm summer night. The sound of buzzing gnats, chirping crickets and the soft flap of a balmy breeze. To my mind came the image of rolling hills, the dark waves of the corn field swaying in the wind; the fireflies, the stars and the full moon the only lights. I was eight again, hiding in the hay loft, peeping out of the cracks in the wood of the barn. I held my breath.

No wind tonight. No moon or stars neither. No lively animals or bold scents from any plants. The city was a dead place full of sleepwalking corpses, myself included.

Outside, a motorcycle let out an unearthly roar as its engine revved. It startled me like the sudden sound of father throwing open the barn door.

I let out the breath.

I reluctantly threw off the covers, trying to shake the sorriness from my soul. There was no point in trying to get there from here. It was too far. In fact, there was no point in even thinking bout it. Winter was for another nine weeks...

Fuck it. I just wanted to fall back asleep.

Back to living in the world the way it should be. Back to not living like this.

... a minute or whatever passed, and again, at the end of it, I wasn't any closer...

Fuck it. It wasn't going to happen.

So I forced my stiff legs to shake off the pins and dull heaviness and pulled myself out of bed with a silent yawn. There was a train coming up from Industrial Park in the southeast, coming from the old coal mining and refinery area where today MAKO Nuclear Reactor #7 cheerily plumed out radioactive waste into the air. The train's whistle blew once. Twice. Three times. Three o'clock?

I rubbed my face and looked around the room, eyes gradually adjusting to the dark. My hair was almost fully blocking both my eyes. I swept at it with my left hand, but most of the gnarled and unwashed strands sprung resiliently back into place over my left eye… God, I needed a haircut.

But first I needed something else.

I stepped around the two plastic containers where Sabin and Edgar slithered around, tongues flick-forking out as if to beg me for more baby white mice to feed them. I ducked under the folds of Terra, my baby lilac tree who was probably thirsty for some water. I finally found Mr. Locke sitting on a pile of dirty clothes, next to Cyan and Gau, the two cats that I hadn't been able to resist giving a saucer of milk to when they took shelter four stories below my apartment building awning, meowing and crying in the cold.

Well, Cyan, the white one with blue eyes, had been meowing. Gau... well, Gau didn't really know how to purr or meow or even how to use the litter box, or to even piss or shit consistently in any one part of my apartment. Gau just made a sort of gurgling moan of a 'Meow' that sounded like 'Gauu Gauu Gaugggau'. Gau wasn't right in the head, but he was a good cat. I loved him...

Mr. Locke was a two foot, blue, purple and clear master of bong hits that I had stolen from a former tenant of the building after I had caught him trying to force himself on the young girl whose father owned the rundown apartment complex. I figured that was some sort of justice. Well, no, not really I guess, when I think about it.

Mr. Locke was a nice bong, but I usually only had the shittiest of shwaggy weed to smoke out of him, and today I barely had enough to pack a pinky's worth of pot. I rustled around in the darkness for a box of matches. I had gotten the idea from Quatre, that really wealthy, really very charming guy from the holdup. It didn't make the first hit of weed taste none better, but the scent from when you struck it and the lingering smoke of the burned out matchstick was a pleasant change from a room that usually stank of crappy herb and dirty laundry.

The flash of light from the match burned my eyes, making me squint instinctively. I barely opened them in time to see the flame struggle, struggle and burn desperately for one quick moment before it died. The smoke trailed up into the air, the spirit extinguished and drifting as it vanished up high above. I needed to hold the match so it fed on the wood gradually, not smother the flame perched atop the pinpoint or let it consume the entire length and singe my fingertips. I was still getting used to not using lighters.

I struck a match and quickly put it down into the bowl of Mr. Locke, breathing in for all I was worth. The pot crackled and sparked, the fire drawn onto it by my breath. The day-old water in the base bubbled and blurped as the smoke was pulled through, cooling it as good as room temperature bong water can. The transparent shaft of the bong turned a creamy white, or something that'd be white in any decent light. In the darkness it was just a ghostly gray. I pulled out the bowl, where the weed had stopped burning (a few pieces of orange peels in the bag keep it moist and preserve freshness, so the pot doesn't all burn up at once), I pulled it out the slide. I breathed in.

I held my breath for seven seconds.

1...

2...

3...

4...

5...

6...

It was just our dog Interceptor coming into the barn, chasing after a field mouse.

I smiled. Something deep in my chest caught and my head heavy and light all at once.

I started coughing violently, but the smile wouldn't go away.

A couple bong rips and coughs later I sneezed just as a loud knock came slamming on my door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I stifled a second sneeze and tried to ask, "Th-who is it!? cough cough" all at the same time.

"Damn it, you little brat!" It was the landlord. That man really hated my guts, was always scheming to come up with ways to get me evicted or in trouble that his daughter wouldn't reprimand him for. "How many times do I have to tell you not to smoke pot in _my _building!? _Huh_!?"

A plane took off from Zeon Airport in the north. The landlord's words and the jet engines echoed loudly in my ears.

"Hang on a minute." I had to get a tissue. And I become aware, as I stood and got slightly light headed from the lack of oxygen in my brain and getting up so suddenly, that it stank like weed in the room.

"You come out here right now, Barton!" the landlord, Kefka or Gestalh or something sinister like that was his name, roared. "I'm going to get your good for nothing ass out of my building _today_!"

I got to the closet-sized box that was my bathroom and nearly tripped over the frogs, Setzer and Celes, who had gotten tired of the now-dried up frying pan and were resting on the cool tile floor. I grabbed emptily at the tissue box. TP it was.

"You listening to me?!" Kefka yelled.

"Just one second!" And it dawned on me that it was probably best if I didn't talk to the building's owner with bad cheeba breath and the smell of smoke all over me. I blew my nose and tossed the booger-blasted toilet paper over my head, in a perfect arc into the trash bin. I splashed my face with water and grabbed my red and orange toothbrush and the small role of Crest.

"Barton, it's three in the afternoon!" I could hear Gestalh's enraged spit hit my door. So it was 3:00 PM, not 3:00 AM? "Kids are about to get home from school! It's trash like you that's destroying-"

"DADDY!!!"

I stopped brushing so furtively, turning the water pressure down just a tad to listen.

"Daddy! Stop picking on Trowa!" It was Catherine. I was saved. "He's never done anything wrong to you!"

"He uses drugs in _my building_!" Kefka roared.

"Daddy, do you really know what Trowa is smoking in there!?" Catherine was probably the only reason I hadn't been kicked out onto the streets yet. "For all you know it's just those new kind of cigarettes. You know smoking isn't prohibited on this floor."

"I would know what he was up to if someone hadn't stolen the extra keys to his room…" Emperor Gestahl spat in frustration. That had been me. Well, you know, just in case I got locked out. And, well… it wasn't like the landlord would have let me on back into the apartment if I ever got locked out.

"He pays the rent and never bothers any of the neighbors!" Catherine jabbed again. "He even helped me move that heavy couch out to the street and stopped that burglar from taking all of old Mrs. Esther's things!"

"Pays late is what he does... And that burglar was probably one of his lowlife friends or..." The sound of the landlord's grousing faded and then vanished. I strained my ears to listen at the door. Was he gone?

"Trowa? Can you open the door Trowa?" It was Catherine. I unlocked the door. She pushed herself inside, locking it in case her father returned.

Immediately Catherine wrinkled up her nose, cupping a hand over her mouth and frowning. She shook her head, bumping into the clutter as she took another step into the unlit room.

"Trowa, it stinks in here!" she reprimanded me. I didn't even blink. I could care less. No, wait, that's wrong. I could _not_ care less. That's how little I cared.

"One day you're going to get in- This place is _such_ a mess, Trowa!"

Catherine was always trying to tell me how to improve myself, how to dress nicely, how to act in public, how to keep my room clean, how to quit my 'dirty habit'. She meant well though...

"Honestly! What _is_ all this stuff?"

But, she was never going to change me. In all honesty, she cared more about my well-being than I did. I just wanted to get to the next day, the next meal, the next quarter ounce of weed.

"And more animals, Trowa? You _know_ they aren't allowed!"

To be truthful, I didn't even want the next day anymore, or the next bag of pot. I didn't want anything. I just did it because it was all I had ever done, habit.

"If father finds out!"

I was actually getting a little tired of it all.

"Trowa, are you listening to me?" Catherine demanded.

"Yes," I lied. I couldn't remember a word of what she'd just said. Something about more animals? I already had over a dozen...

"Trowa..." Catherine's attitude changed instantly. Her spunk was lost, her sternness had fled. She still frowned at me, but her concerned eyes were, more than anything else, sad.

She closed the distance between us, crushing the plastic of an EZ-Mac package under her foot. She always wore sandals at home, and revealing tang tops with short-shorts. Her face was very close to mine. I always had the feeling that she wanted to kiss me, but was holding back, waiting for something. Her eyes sparkled. I could never identify that unique color in her eyes...

"What's wrong with you, Trowa?" She stroked my cheek like a mother consoling a crying child. "You're young, handsome. Why do you seem so sad?"

The glistening dew of forming tears twinkled in the corners of her eyes. Mine were dry. She was the one crying. I was...

Was I sad? Fuck it. Who cared anyway? Catherine... Why should she be sad over me? Me... Why should I be sad over myself?

"I'm fine Catherine," I told her for the millionth time. She never believed me, although she really wanted to.

"Please, Trowa..." I hated when people cry. It's a worthless gesture, just weakness. "Please, you have to try! Please!"

"I will, Catherine," I lied.

-end "There's no Place Like Home: Trowa's"

Part E of Act II in Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: Bad Habits – Wufei's – Constantly Correcting others with Personal Opinions

ID Notes:

Trowa's pets (and bong) are named after Final Fantasy 6 characters. His family dog in the memory (Trowa will have a past, as this an AU fic and I can do as I please with those things, thank you very much) is the name of Shadow's dog in the same game.

Catherine is Catherine Bloom from Gundam Wing. As her past and possible relation to Trowa in Gundam Wing is quite sketchy already, I've done away with it altogether here. So, no, they are not related.

Catherine's father is not anyone from the Gundam Wing show. I just had to make up someone to be Trowa's landlord. Since Trowa can't seem to remember his name, he won't ever have one, but will be nicknamed after two of the villains from FF6.

Other notes: This is the first scene set in Metropolis, the western part of Metro City, so it has some new references. Again, see the map if you're ever confused or curious.


	14. IIF: Bad Habits: Wufei's: Judgments

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation" – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (mainly 1x2 and 3x4, lemons indeed) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Thanks to everyone who is reading. I'm sorta distraught on the lack of reviews lately... I guess people liked the starting chapters more... I'm still working on this story because it means a lot to me, and I'm not going to demand reviews, but it's been a little depressing the past couple weeks. So, if you can, it does mean a lot to me.

Part F of "Wonder What's Next", Page II in the s4 arc

Bad Habits –Wufei's – Constantly Correcting Others with Personal Opinions

Wufei's POV

"blah blah blah ...and that's why-"

"No. You're wrong."

The other person stops. They look at me, sometimes mad at being interrupted, sometimes stupidly.

"The reason the cloroxide molecules don't coalesce with the artificial blood cells created by the Rothlisman Technique is because the white blood cells in the host identify the blood as a foreign invader, and then-"

"Wait a second."

During almost any correction, the person being corrected stops the other. Sometimes it's to interject with a counter. Sometimes they just want to reassert their original, incorrect notion. Other times they are just too confused or overwhelmed by the weight of the correct statement.

Either way, I hate being interrupted when I'm correcting somebody...

"Just listen," I try to say, but the fool continues...

"Wait a minute, I read that study too. That was from the Düsseldorf Institution's study, right?"

"Yes..."

Honestly, they think they have the same understanding I do just because they read the same article...

So, grudgingly, I must acknowledge their pithy attempt to assert their obviously lacking knowledge of the subject. Its lacking is obvious, because if it wasn't lacking they wouldn't need to be corrected in the first place...

"But the more recent study from Cornell University says that the cloroxide molecules actually do go through the coalescing process up until the fourth stage of bonding. But then the treatment from the chemotherapy is what-"

"Artificial blood from Rothlisman infusions don't have any negative effect with chemotherapy patients." I shake my head. What an idiot... "That's been proved a long time ago."

"But none of those transfusions involved heavy cloroxide amounts!"

"Yes, obviously. Otherwise the problem wouldn't exist..."

"Well, then it's because..."

And so the bickering goes on, a real waste of time.

Now, don't get me wrong here. I'm not arrogant (although Meiran always insists that I am...), and I don't honestly think I'm better than anyone else. We're all the same components of bone, ligaments, muscle and bodily fluids. The real difference boils down to how we use the gray matter in between our ears and the superficial characteristics of our bone structure and on our epidermis.

But, it's a true fact that when two minds, two people, meet, one of them is going to be superior to the other. One is going to know more about concentrated cloroxides in blood infusions than the other one does. or - greater than or lesser than, and sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, equal to, although that is truly a once in a lifetime match.

Now, I don't think I'm necessarily that much smarter than everyone out there. There are plenty of people who know more about particular subjects than I do; I admit that, I'm not arrogant... But, when you've been privately educated by some of the best personal instructors from a young age, and in my case that was two years of age, and then go on to have top marks at the nation's most lofty private high school, and continue further to receive a full scholarship at a foreign university where you engage (and sometimes correct) the professors and work in state of the art labs and classrooms...

No... perhaps rambling on about my educational history is bordering on the arrogant... Indeed, such a background is not synonymous with success or abundant knowledge. However, upon combining this fortuitous tutelage with a zealous desire- no, _passion_ is more fitting- with a zealous passion to cultivate and enlighten oneself, that is the personal edge I can claim in my correction of others.

Indeed, as Meiran likes to say (even if she is scoffing at me...) I am a scholar, first and foremost. The hours spent devouring research manuscripts and comparing various studies, beyond that laconic effort required for satisfying course work, that I personally persist at and insist upon, that is my edge. The days cooped up in laboratories and using the utmost discernment and deliberation in composing experimental compounds and mixtures, that is my edge. This, and again it can only sound right in my mind phrased as such, this impassioned zeal is my edge.

But I do not just use this edge solely for my own. It would be as ludicrous as discovering the key to Unified Theory and keeping it to oneself! No... no... I have not reached the summit, not yet... not yet... I have yet to reach that peak in my own endeavors where I can confidently bring them to others and assert that my theories are truth... It would be arrogant of me to think that, at least at this point... No, I do not make that assertion, although it remains the goal that I strive towards.

One day I will be able to make the true declaration of my hard-earned accomplishments, and I will silence the inevitable, foolish opposition with the finely honed temperament of my edge.

Although... in the mean time, to hear others spout nonsense and error with ignorant sincerity makes is not something I have restraint for... nor should I...

"I told you already! The criminal justice system can't be any more effective on violent spouses without infringing on constitutional and ethical rights!"

I have to correct them again.

Why don't people just accept the corrections that more intelligent people offer to them?

"No. He obviously dropped the ball because he's not focusing on the game right now."

Why is everyone so bent on maintaining some kind of pride or infallible image?

"No. It's obviously because..."

-end Bad Habits – Wufei's – Constantly Correcting others with Personal Opinions,

Part F of Page II in "Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

Next: Significant Others – Duo's – Solo Forgoet

Note: I don't know shit about science. All that babble is totally made up.


	15. IIG: Signficant Others: Duo's: Solo

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation" – a GW fanfiction manifested via madness

By Masamune Reforged

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (1x2 and 3x4, among others and graphic sexual lemons) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Timeline note: This chapter is from later on in the night of the 24/7 store robbery, with Duo recounting events from directly after the robbery in Page I. Yes, I know technically that means it should be the first part in Page II, but that would mean three parts narrated by him in a row, and I got to spread the Duo evenly. Besides, I really wanted to end this Page with this part. I apologize for this inconsistency and promise it is the last time it will happen. All future parts and Pages will be in chronological order.

Spoiler note: I don't consider Episode Zero (the manga that reveals the background stories about the Gundam pilots) to be something everyone's read. I won't reveal anything about Episode Zero or assume that people reading this have read it. So all the characters (like Solo) that I pluck from there, as well as events/places referred to, are just names. I may borrow ideas/stuff from Episode Zero, but the pasts of characters in Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation may be different from, and sometimes similar to, the pasts portrayed in Episode Zero.

Note about notes: I also apologize for all the notes P

Part G of Page II: "Wonder What's Next" in the s4 arc

Significant Others – Duo's – Solo Forgoet

Duo's POV

To think back to that night my world got turned upside down... Fuckin 'A... oh, what a night...

That whole robbery, the 5-O surrounding the place, that gorgeous hunk named Heero Yuy murdering a cop (and to top it off, crippling the second one; I still can't believe he managed to hit him with that shot; I mean, it must have been like a one in a million chance, right?), racing through the dark night, that cold hearted son of a bitch named Heero Yuy leaving me high and dry at Alibaba's.

Shit, that was more than enough excitement for one night.

Right?

Yeah... yeah right...

-----

Later that night, sometime during the early hours before dawn actually, I rolled into the crib. Well, I didn't really roll in, I'm on two feet and all. And I didn't make much noise, because I was pretty sure Solo was either shacked up with someone or asleep, and no matter what you might think of me, I'm real, er, whatever that word is, about other people's privacy and shit. So, I was tip-toeing in as quietly as possible so that either way I didn't shake anything up. I didn't want to bother Solo.

Solo.

God, where do I begin? Seriously, he's the only person in the whole world that I'd honestly call a friend. He's always been the best friend anyone could ever want. You want to know why? Well, guess what? I'm gonna tell you anyway. So get comfy.

First, he's a great listener. And with as much as I talk (yeah yeah, you've probably noticed I'm a little long winded from time to time. Deal with it!), that really means something. But he's not just the kind who sits there staring off into space, only pretending to listen. He pays attention to all my tirades and crises and all of that. And from time to time, whenever he thinks it might help, he'll offer encouragement, or advice, or ask an insightful question- you know, the kind that suddenly makes you think from a different angle on it.

Oh, and he's a fucking blast to hang around with! The motherfucker can party like a rock star! Although... recently he'd been staying home more and more. I didn't know what that was all about. He would always say that he was tired or that he didn't feel like drinking or getting crunked, but that was bullshit, and I knew it. That's another thing that's great about Solo, he's a shitty liar.

He was also one of the first of the kids on the street to help me out. He helped me break away from that shitty foster family and even got me into the same orphanage that he was in. I learned all about Seaside Metropolis and Downtown Gotham from hanging with him. He was also one of the few kids who didn't make fun of my long hair. He never pulled it or called me a girly boy... he even would help me brush it when it was being a pain in the ass...

Solo is also loyal, thoughtful and, yeah, well, he's probably the only person in the world who puts up with me that I haven't slept with... I could go on and on about the guy.

Anyway, when I came home, I was surprised that he was still up.

"You're awake!" I said, walking into the messy roach motel that was our kitchen. He was watching TV and eating Lucky Charms. That should've sent an immediate warning sign. Lucky Charms was Solo's comfort food; the guy loved marshmallows.

"Hey there." His voice was a little scratchy. "You're getting in late... and alone?"

"Oh, I found some action at AliBaba's, some solider boy, little overaggressive... But what can you expect from a shell shocked guy like that?"

"You're pretty riled up over some random trick at Ali's." Solo turned to face me now.

Solo could best be described as a 'Golden Boy'. Light blue eyes, shining blonde hair in a bowl cut, pale white skin, a little bit taller than me. I had no clue how he and I never slept together, besides the fact that we were both 'bottom bitches' and naturally more inclined to compete for the same type of guy instead of try to get with each other. Solo was handsome. He'd been in porno.

Solo squinted those blue eyes at me, eyes that can see right through me. "Seriously, something else happen? And I thought you were just gonna rent a flick on your way back from work?"

So, like always, I spilled the beans to Solo. I told him all about the crazy fucking robbery at the 24/7 store, being taken hostage, the shootout, the escape, and, of course, about that gorgeous piece of stone cold ass.

"So he's an absolute workaholic, a contract killer, and an abusive pervert. Hahaha," Solo laughed very softly, delicately. "Haha. Seriously, at least that last part fits your tastes perfectly! Haha-coughcoughcough..."

And still Solo broke down, coughing into his hands even as he smiled at me. I grabbed him a paper towel. We'd been going through them like crazy recently, and the last bunch of tissues that I'd swiped from the supermarket was also long gone.

"Thanks," he said. Solo had been sick for awhile now. He still dragged himself to work everyday, bartending at an Irish place near the New Metro Pier. He pulled in good dough, but was calling in sick more and more often. It used to take a tank or an entire bottle of gin to knock Solo down...

"So, you seriously like this guy, even though he gave you the cold shoulder at the end?" he asked.

"...Yeah, I guess so..." My anger had dwindled on the late subway ride back home. Hell, I was happy that I'd memorized the guy's beeper number from just hearing it once.

"Of course. You're all about the ones that treat you like trash..." He sighed.

" 'Use me, abuse me, hurt me, screw me', " I said the old motto out loud. God, I remember when Solo and I would scream that until our voices cracked, on top of bars, tables, cars, back when we were teens... I hadn't heard it said out loud in forever. It took me back, made me chuckle. "Yeah, wow, that's all I ask for, isn't it?"

"You're quite the dirty little rumpot, you impish Duo Maxwell." Solo could do a great English accent. It always cracked me up. "Seriously, to think such a filthy runt like you was educated by venerable women of the cloth would make good old Sister Helen flip in her grave."

"Hahahhaha, oh, hah- oh stop, oh-hehehe." I had to dry my eyes with my sleeve, I was laughing so hard. "Oh, fuck... Solo you cr-"

He was looking at me with this look, and I didn't know what to make of it. I couldn't figure out a way to identify it, to place where I'd seen it before. It was a serious, somber look. I always got scared when Solo put on serious faces. I stopped laughing instantly. My stomach flopped queasily, like I was already about to puke up whatever I was about to be fed.

"But, seriously"- (That's Solo's word, 'seriously'. He would use it, seriously, every other time he opened his mouth.) "Seriously, Duo, take care of yourself, ya know?"

"But that's no fun!" I tried to laugh away the dark mood, shrugged it off with a smile and acted like it wasn't a big deal.

"Duo... seriously..." And I watched Solo struggle to choose the right words. I knew it was going to be bad. "Seriously, you're going to get yourself hurt, or worse, if you don't start watching out for yourself."

"Aww. But that's why I have you by my side, mommy, to watch over me and keep me safe from bullies."

I couldn't help it. I needed to laugh it off. Get serious about something, and it'll get under your skin. Get all grave and serious, and you're getting yourself ready for the grave. Not me, not Duo Maxwell.

"This is no joke, Duo. I'm being serious here."

Solo used to be more like me... he would laugh along with me at all the crap life threw at us, just as loudly, just as defiantly... He used to...

"Duo, we've lived it up, man, seriously. We've done so much for two kids without parents, without anything. The parties, the tricks, the life, we lived it, man."

"We _are_ living it!" I corrected.

But Solo just looked at me, looked at me with those eyes, the eyes of a teacher. Solo was a few years older than me, ya know. So he was always showing me how to do things, how to get by. I always sucked at school. I couldn't take the nuns' lessons seriously. I'd spend my time goofing off or scheming some crazy shit with the other kids.

But when Solo got that look in his eyes, when his face changed to really show the difference in age between us, I shut up. I stopped dicking around. When Solo was going to say something serious, something he really wanted me to take to heart, I would wait raptly for the lesson.

It'd been years since Solo had looked at me like that. He'd once told me that he'd passed every thing on to me. Every scrap of knowledge, every back alley shortcut, every thieving trick in the book, every piece of street smarts he possessed had been mine since we were real young.

Now he had something new to tell me, seriously.

"It can catch up to you." His voice was pained. "I'm sorry Duo... It's not always like the way I taught you. Those things... they catch up to you..."

I didn't understand, and I told that to Solo.

He pulled his chair closer to me. On the TV Seinfeld was telling a joke and everyone was laughing.

He looked into my eyes for a long time, just looking at me, apologizing.

"I went to the hospital a few weeks ago, to see what the deal on this cold I've had for so long really is..."

This... this wasn't the Solo I knew...

"The doctor called earlier, when you were still at work."

He was lying to me. Solo was lying to me. He had to be! He couldn't have been wrong, _we_ couldn't have been wrong! All these years? All these years, we were wrong?

"It's a lot worse than I thought."

No. No. NO NO NO NO NNONONONONONONONONO!!!

"I'm really sick, Duo. I have the AIDs virus."

Oh god. Oh God you motherfucking piece of evil shit! You fucking unfair, cocksucking, backstabbing, bearded asshole! Don't do this to me! Don't do this to Solo...

"I'm going to die, Duo. I don't have much time left."

Please? Please don't do this to Solo? _Please_?

"Seriously."

-end Significant Others – Duo's – Solo Forgoet

-end Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation, Page II, "Wonder What's Next"

Next: Page 3, "In the Concrete Jungle".

Will go more into the background and setting of the story. Introduce more players, such as Treize Kushrenada (Senator), Heero's father, Tsubarov (Wufei's professor) and others.

ID Note:

Solo was never given a last name. I chose Forgoet as a slight variation of forgo, meaning 'go without', or 'to sacrifice'.


	16. Page III: In the Concrete Jungle

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings, although primarily 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Note: This is one of the parts where I introduce characters to the story who are not part of the Gundam Wing universe. Don't worry. You don't need to know anything about other Gundam shows/series, and I sincerely promise not to spoil anything about those shows in this story. Characters from other Gundam series do not play the same roles that they do in their respective series. This is just an AU story using Gundam characters.

As always, a big big thank you to ZaKai for her relentless help!

Part A of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III of the s4 arc.

Politics As Usual.

3rd person narration

"And that concludes the final meeting of this, the 214th National Senate. I hope that you will all enjoy the long, much deserved break and get some rest. But given the large number of elections coming up this fall, I know that many of you, myself included, will have very little time for relaxation. The best of luck to you all! I hope to see you around the Capital, even if the polls fall against you on Election Day."

"It's been a pleasure, Chief Senator Kushrenada!"

"Thank you, Senator Weyridge. The pleasure was all mine."

The chairs shuffle and groan under the rising, shifting weight of the politicians. Most of their occupants are fat and old, having greatly strained the seats of power that have supported them for so long. Many chairs are already vacated before this, the final meeting of this year's National Senate. The political campaign is an effort that demands stupendous amounts of time, effort and money. Lawmaking is secondary to securing the lawmaker's privileges.

"Senator Kushrenada." A soft, professionally friendly voice catches the man in the hallway. There are flights to catch, matters to be attended to, but the call of a fellow politician must be acknowledged. To turn a deaf ear to senators could mean subsequent, and disastrous, impaired response to your own calls, as Caesar found out in the worst way possible.

The calling voice belongs to Gilbert Dullindal. Together, he and Treize Kushrenada are the two senators for the largest, busiest, and most difficult province in the land. The difficulty of their charge lies largely in Metro City, the nation's largest urban area, falling under their jurisdictions. It also brings them the largest tax collection and the richest of lobbyists.

"Ah, Senator Dullindal, how are you?" Kushrenada, the younger statesmen of the two, most recently Chief of the National Senate, smiles and extends his gloved hand to the other, slightly older gentleman. Treize carries himself with the straight-backed resilience of a military man, yet simultaneously eases those he encounters into an alluringly intimate amicability.

Gilbert Dullindal is tall and only a few years older than Treize, with long black hair, endless calm, and rare foresight and wisdom. His greatest gift is that most revered by Pericles of Athens, that of the tongue. Gilbert Dullindal is best known for his rousing speeches and suave handling of other politicians, both foreign and native. His great diplomatic care gives some the impression that he is insincere and false. Such is politics.

Treize Kushrenada is hardly a man who needs introduction. He hails from a family of revered public figures, upholding that noble heritage to the utmost. Born into politics, his network of supporters and allies is vast and enviable. A decorated military career and his personal charm also contribute to his popularity. He is often outspoken on issues closest to his heart, much to the chagrin of important movers and shakers, but he offers a sincerity and genuine warmth that is rare in politics.

"I am well, as I hope you are," Dullindal responds.

"At this time of the year, I am often left rather drained and sometimes frustrated at the hindrances that the governing body has been unable to overcome," Treize sighs openly, confiding in a man that many would consider his rival. Both are young (for politicians) and ambitious (again, notably so even for the brood deceptively labeled 'public servants'), and it is no secret that their agendas have clashed several times in the past. "But it is too fine a day to let such drabs into the spirit."

They stand for an awkward moment, facing each other. Pleasantries exchanged, the real flesh of the dialogue will emerge soon. Both men are too intelligent and skilled to require further beating around the proverbial bush.

"About Duke Dermail," Dullindal starts, an unpleasant twang evident in his pronunciation. "I have heard that the scandal is not just confined to simple... prostitution-" Dullindal seems to almost choke on the foul word- "but into affairs with characters of... dubious nature, abuses of office."

"Alleged assistance to criminal organizations." Treize does not blink an eye. "As you know, my position restrains me from speaking freely of certain sensitive matters..." He tries to duck the question, to brush the other off quickly. He has never liked Dullindal, never completely understanding his goals. Such is distrust bred.

"Of course!" Dullindal replies, an air of disdain at Treize's even suggesting that the raven-haired politician ever desire rules and laws to be broken! "I was merely wondering what your personal feelings on the matter were. Your tenure in that area is quite lengthy, but Dermail has been in Metro City longer than even you."

"He has been a fixture in the Mayor's office for almost as long as I have been alive. But time does not stand still, not even for men of power. I also assume that you have heard the news that Dermail will be stepping down from his position?" This is a compliment, an acknowledgment of the capabilities of the other Senator. Only a few of the eldest and most important statesmen are privy to such information. And Dullindal, although Treize's elder in years, is a relative newcomer on the political stage.

"For personal matters, resignation is not always necessary," Dullindal continues without giving away the extent of his own knowledge, "but for corruption..."

"If such charges were made against any government official, they would require them to step down during the actual trial, if it ever came to that," Treize says. The unsaid rule goes that resignation is the 'more honorable' option, in the face of the scrutiny that comes with a public official being put on trial. Finding honor in politics is much akin to seeking gold from the brackish mud astride a riverbed; flecks of great brilliance may be prospected, and those fortunate enough to not be cheated by Fools' Gold may indeed become the stuff of legends, but the whole process still retains a decidedly funny stench about it...

"Is it true that you are considering taking over for Dermail?" Dullindal stabs, finally, at the point.

"I am sure someone suitable will take the stage to fill the role left by Duke Dermail." Treize's answer is pointedly vague.

"But it was also rumored that you would take a chance in the Presidential elections, running against President Garma Zabi..." Dullindal smiles. Such news is not supposed to have left the Kushrenada camp. The election for the presidency is still three years away.

"We shall see," the elder replies, checking his watch. It is the classic way of announcing one's intended departure from a political entanglement.

"Ah, I do not mean to keep you..." Dullindal is always courteous.

"Not at all." Treize smiles chilly.

They part ways. It is just politics as usual.

-end "Politics As Usual"

Part A in Page III in the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: Significant Others - Heero - Odin Yuy

ID Notes:

Gilbert Dullindal is the Chairman of PLANT in Gundam SEED: Destiny, the sequel series to Gundam SEED, and the most recent of the Gundam shows. Here he and Treize are senators from the same province.

Marquis Weyridge is a minor character from Gundam Wing. He is the elderly aristocrat who befriends Relena at a ball in Moscow, where Relena tries to kill Lady Une. He also briefly serves as the (replacement) leader of Romafeller.

Garma Zabi is a major character in the original Gundam series. Here he is the President of the nation the story is set it.

Time note:

The National Senate and all other federal legislative bodies take a formal recess on January 20th of every year for installment of new members (although Senators are only elected every four years). It has been just over one month since the robbery at the 24/7 store.

I have decided to make Treize quite a bit older in this story, in his late 40's. I just don't find it believable that someone in his position of power could be in his 20's...


	17. IIIB: Significant Others: Heero's: Dad

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings, but primarily 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part B of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

Significant Others – Heero's – Odin Yuy

Heero's POV

It was Sunday. I never understood Sundays, might never. The routine changes. No work, no school, no drinking, no alarm clocks, no missions. All people do is shop and go to church. The entire world is put on hold, a one day hiatus.

But Sundays have their own routine and familiarity to them. Mothers go shopping; the same ring-road market or shopping center, a familiar list of foodstuffs. Fathers fix up the house; the same set of tools, familiar leaks and broken fences. Kids slack off; the same set of friends and familiar games. Students start their work for Monday; the same classes, familiar assignments and studies.

Sometimes there are differences: ballgames, trips to the park, a movie, relatives, a suicide.

The people go to church.

I was looking at a group waiting to cross the street to Saint Sophia's on 121st Street. They were all black people. The entire upper Gotham region, where I was driving through, was made up of blacks, Asians, Hindis, Latinos, and other groups of immigrants. There were also large numbers of poorer Italians, Irish and Greeks. The western side of streets 110 to 175 were composed of rundown apartment complexes and decaying two-story hovels, most of their occupants minorities, and all of them poor. The northern region was called Bliss Heights, due to the number of trees, parks and hills once looking down on the metropolitan skyline of Central Gotham. But currently people just called it "Africa". I didn't understand the name.

Hn, whatever. 121st Street was one of the worst areas in the entire city; but these people were all dressed in their Sunday best. I suppose they wanted to look flawless for God and the pastor. Maybe it would make up for the crimes and sins they committed on the other six days of the week? I never subscribed to redemption, and couldn't see why they should either; yet there they were. They were on welfare, used food stamp, and lived in public housing. They had to conserve hot water during the winter and cracked fire hydrants open in summer. But today they were all dressed in suits and dresses. The children picked at their ornate costumes with pouty lips and uncomfortable wiggles. I sat in my car and looked out at them. They waited for me to drive by.

I had to yield to them. The sign said so. It read, "Must yield to pedestrians in the crosswalk".

So I sat there. I waited and sat there. A hotrod behind me began to honk his horn.

The group didn't cross. Maybe it was their numbers, or the parents' concern for the children. Maybe it was because nobody yielded to pedestrians anywhere north of the on-ramp to Avalon Bridge. I honked at them and made a gesture showing my surprising lack of desire to run them down. They crossed.

I was dressed up as well. Or rather, considering I generally wear a full suit and tie everyday, this was actually a dressed-down day. However, I considered my brown penny-loafers, tweed vest, and collared Polo shirt to be dressing up because I had to take much more time picking out my Sunday morning clothing. The rest of the week I simply grabbed whichever pre-arranged suit and tie combination happened to be closest.

But I had quickly found that dad thought it odd that I wore such formal attire around him...

Still, I wanted to impress him, show him how well I was doing, that I was healthy, happy, normal.

All the things I really wasn't.

I didn't like lying to dad. But telling him the truth, all the dark and evil secrets, would probably have killed him. No, it was unlikely that it would actually kill him, as he was one of the toughest old men on the face of the earth, but... He was the one person I did not want to hurt, in any way. I wanted him to be proud of me. He always said he was proud of me... I wanted more. I wanted to feel like I had earned his pride; that I was really something he could be proud of.

Not some twisted murderer with homosexual tendencies...

Not some chronic gambler and gun-for-hire...

How could I ever tell him that?

I could never think long about how he might react to learning the truth. The most common nightmares that plagued me were when I dreamed he found out about me, after I'd been arrested, from a co-worker, finding me in bed with Duo... I could not get up to the part where he would yell at me. Dostoevsky would tell him 'See, I told you so' (Dad was often found to be reading 'The Brothers Karamazov' and other works by the Russian author; and, for some odd reason, even though I could never have met the man and had no real idea what he would look like, the long-dead Russian would sometimes appear in my dreams as if he were a real flesh and blood acquaintance of my dad)- and he, my dad, would just look at me with such loathing and...

And I would wake up pleading out loud for his forgiveness...

No. I could never tell him. He must never find out...

It was the most strenuous mission I had ever faced, the one that took the largest toll on me every Sunday. The mission: be a good son, the boy that dad deserved, that he worked so hard to raise. It was a covert operation, where lies were my shields and forged information were my bullets.

-----

Before I knew it, I was sitting in front of him, sipping the tea that he had prepared himself. On the table were several newspapers, his reading glasses, and 'The Brothers'. There were hired hands to help him with the lawn, the serious cleaning, but he always insisted on cooking for himself. A real stubborn, do-it-yourself kind of person, dad had taught himself how to cook at a base-camp in the European theatre. His cuisine retained the distinct lack of flavor and succor that must have been initially inspired by un-spiced war rations and mostly rotten produce.

"So, how is the business going?" he asked.

"Fine," I answered. "Everything's pretty good."

"You weren't affected by that recent carpenter's union strike at all?"

Dad was always reading newspapers. He always knew the latest; still sending me clipped articles that he thought could help me with my fake construction company. A member of the underworld who I'd done countless jobs for had set up a shell network of fake secretaries, answering machines, even company logos and forged photographs, making it appear that I had a real, legitimate business. Such shells were standard practice in money laundering.

"Well..." I took a deep drink from my glass, stalling. Unable to come up with a lie, hating myself for even trying, I set it back down. "...not really."

My father peered at me. His face was wrinkled and worn by the countless years. His grayed, going white hair was tied into a stub of a ponytail. He had a permanent scar over his right eye from serving in the Great War when he was even younger than I am now. Shrapnel from an anti-air mortar. He had dentures and a cane.

"But all the unionized carpenters in the Metro area held out for an entire month." My father was tough to fool. His friends often came to him for advice, even though he had been just a lowly dock worker and sailor. His retirement party from the marina had been a sight to see. "Unless... unless you've been lying to me all this time."

"That's not true, dad!" I protested, hoping my lie wouldn't be obvious.

"Heero, come now." He looked at me with almost the same cobalt eyes I see in the mirror every day. Except his are free of sin and shame, shining instead with pride and respectability. "It's no use hiding it from me."

"I-I-..." Had he found out after all this time? I guess I couldn't fool 'Boss Yuy', as his friends like to call him, after all. The shame welled up inside of me. I felt like a tiny child, lost and helpless in a dark house, staggering desperately in search of the warmth and light that would nourish me when I was a baby. "I..."

"Heero." My father, Odin Yuy, a great man, put his hand on mine, still looking at me with all the pride and love any son could ever wish for. The blows of shame were worse than any bullet that had ever landed on my flesh. This pierced something deeper. "Heero, it's okay. I understand."

Confusion was added to distress. How could he possibly understand?

"Lots of construction companies use illegal immigrants as workers in hard times." Relief and guilt washed over me in unison. The resulting feeling was a kind of light-headedness, a tendency to laugh unnecessarily, and a queasy emptiness in one's guts. I sucked the last dregs from my cup of tea... not enough to calm me.

"I was always suspicious when you told me that you only use unionized laborers in all of your jobs." Dad kept going on, eyes twinkling with that 'Thought you could fool your old man!' glimmer. "It's almost impossible to make any money with the outrageous wages these bastardly unions demand nowadays! You just be careful, you know, that you don't get in any trouble with the law."

I nodded and politely asked him for another cup of tea.

-----

The clock struck three before I knew it. We'd gotten to talking about when I was younger. About several close friends of dad's who were getting old now, some of them dead already. We talked about the times when we'd travel up to the Cape Town and I'd play on the sandbars during summer. It seemed so long ago. Dad said that Mom had always liked it there. I was still quite young when she died...

"And how are the ladies treating you?" dad asked. I always hated this line of questioning, even before I knew I had no interest in the opposite sex. It was embarrassing for a boy to have to talk with his father about that kind of thing. Now, as an adult, my embarrassment was my dark secret. Remorse at the fact that I had no interest in giving him the grandchildren I knew he was so eager to have was what made the conversations awkward now.

I shook my head, trying to show that I didn't want to talk about this subject.

"Well, you know, one day a pretty young woman might just come knocking and maybe you'll find yourself head over heels for her!" Dad guffawed rather loudly. I didn't see anything funny.

The doorbell rang. Eager for a reason to escape the conversation, I got up off the cushioned leather chair and went to the foyer. I opened the milk-white mahogany door.

There was a lady standing there. Her blue-green eyes showed surprise at seeing me. She was dressed in a professional business suit that had a modest skirt, skin colored tights and matching shoes. Her light brown hair was almost blonde in the winter sunlight. It was pulled back rather tightly and seemed to be tied by- And it hit me. My father's loud guffaw seemed to chuckle in my ears. This woman was just my age and...

"Oh, I'm sorry," the young lady spoke. "I was looking for Mr. Odin Yuy. Do I have the right address?" Her cheeks began to flush. It was a deeper blush than from just making an understandable mistake.

"Yes, this is the Yuy residence," I said blankly, more than slightly annoyed at both the woman and my father.

"_Well?_ Don't just stand there like an idiot, invite her in!" Dad's voice came from behind. He was staggering towards us, leaning heavily on his cane and beaming. To get from the living room to the door he must have sprung from his chair the second I left the room... "Invite Ms. Darlian in!"

My hand was forced. "Umm... uh, would you like to come inside?" I asked.

Ms. Darlian's face said yes, but she shook her head. "Oh, no. I only came to drop off..." She held up a manila envelope, as if it could explain everything.

"Nonsense my girl! Come in, come in!" Dad was great at devising these plans. "We were just about to sit down and have a light snack. Wouldn't you join us, for just a minute or two?"

"Well..." The girl eyed me bashfully. Fucking women... They could never just be open about their emotions. It was obvious that she wanted to come in; and it wasn't snacks that allured her... "I suppose, for only a minute though."

"Would you take her coat, Heero?" I love my dad, but sometimes he would do things like this that really... Oh, well, I supposed I deserved it. "Have you met Ms. Relena Darlian before, Heero? She's the daughter of the D.A. and quite a bright girl."

"Oh, please, Mr. Yuy!" Relena tried to stop him, blushing more.

I heaved a deep sigh and shut the door.

-end Heero's POV

-end "Significant Others – Heero's – Odin Yuy"

Part B in Page III of the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation story arc.

Next: Order, High Council Meeting of

ID Notes:

Odin Yuy is sorta a hybrid of Odin Lowe (Episode Zero) and Dr. J. If you must think of him as anything, think of him as Odin Lowe, just older. Obviously his past isn't the same as in Wing, and here I've cast him as Heero's actual father.

Relana Darlian. You know who she is. Here she is actually the daughter of Robert Darlian, the District Attorney from part D of the previous Page.

Heero's mother will be fleshed out later.

Setting Note:

This is the furthest north in Gotham we've been yet. The map on my site can help.

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom


	18. IIIC: High Council Meeting of the Order

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Whenshootingstarsfalldotcom

Part C of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc

Order, High Council Meeting of

? POV

A completely dark room, save for two candles on both sides of an altar. On the altar is an old book, a sword, and a symbol carved into the wood. Behind it sits a cloaked figure. The cloak is black, hood up, covering the face. It is impossible to identify him. The only defining trait is an elaborate golden sash draped around the neck and tied around the waist.

Behind him is a larger rendition of the symbol. It is a globe held up by Atlas, from whose hands also dangle a scepter and sword. Unlike most depictions, Atlas is clothed, in the finest of dress from times long past. He wears a crown and a knowing, superior smile. Figures of an ancient language adorn the top, above the globe, and the bottom, at Atlas's feet.

The cloth that the symbol appears on does not cover the entire wall. A perceptive eye can catch numerous screens catching the glint of the candles in the corners.

Two equally concealed figures approach, kneeling and mumbling an oath at the altar. They both carry individual candles, which they add to the altar. One figure is noticeably smaller than the other, who is both tall and broad. The shorter man sits on the right hand side of the room, the taller on the left. Their respective sashes are silver and purple.

The leader, the figure behind the altar, stands and the others follow. They raise their arms as if in emulation of Atlas and murmur a prayer or chant in an unrecognizable tongue. They return to their seats.

"We are all busy, so this shall be brief," the leader speaks. He is a male with a calm, monotone voice. "I have not invited our Kin Scribe, nor any of the others, for a reason. The contents of this meeting are to be secrets, kept under The Pain, even from our fellow Kin, until I decide the proper time to reveal them."

"Is that such a-" the large man, for his is a deep bass of a voice, begins to protest.

"You must acknowledge the Order before speaking, Kin of Rite!" the leader roars, his soft voice now an almost alien snarl.

The tall man stands and makes several motions with his arms. "Kin of the Order, God Head," he addresses properly, but a dark tone underscores the final two words, used to address the leader. "I must ask if it is wise to conceal these happenings from the others. Kin Neo is a crucial part of our efforts, as are numerous others. To properly implement our plan they must have adequate information." He quickly adds, "And, considering our haste and small numbers, I kindly appeal for an Open Forum."

"Open Forum is granted. There is no need to address," the God Head grants the request. "As for information, it shall be contained, as I said before, to us three. The others will know when they must."

"Do you believe there may be a spy in our midst?" the one with the silver sash finally speaks. He has a heavy European accent.

"The Pain and Punishment for such crimes is known to all," the leader answers. "It has always been sufficient to keep loyalty, even if only through fear. And, if I must remind you, Kin Procurator, protecting against such evils falls directly under your charge."

"To the matters at hand," the God Head continues on, for time is dear to all three of these men. "As you know, one of our number, Duke Dermail, will be resigning as Mayor of Metro City, the key base of our most important operations. Despite our best efforts, that meddler Darlian has enough evidence to force him to step down, if not enough to charge him publicly... Treize Kushrenada will volunteer to take over."

"We acted too late. And, with Kushrenada... it is more than just a rumor then..." The hulking figure's voice shows the unease in all of them. "Does this mean we should stall the operation and cancel the assassination?"

"No." The European noble, the Kin Procurator, shakes his head decisively. "The time and cost of moving the materials and personnel would impede our plans for years to come. As for the assassination, we must not let this recent blow go unanswered. I wonder... perhaps we should approach Kushrenada and see if he can be brought to our side?"

"Bringing new Kin into the Order is not done with forced hands," the leader silences the notion. "We shall continue the Superior effort, but with greater caution and vigilance. Kushrenada is a threat, but he lacks the control of the factions, particularly those that would give him insight into our operations. Yes, Kin of Rite?"

The large man, the Kin of Rite, speaks, "With Dermail out of the picture, who shall we depend on to be our go-between? We still need the support of those corrupt bastards, not to mention the grunt gangs."

"Those criminals are the very filth we seek to exterminate!" the Procurator cries out. "It has always been a mistake to trust them! To do so in the future would-"

"Filth or not, we need them to keep the Superior plan on schedule," the Kin of Rite lashes back. "If you are so desperate to secure yourself in Metro City, we should seek out Dekim to-"

"Dekim was cast out for a reason! Speaking his name is even a-"

"We will have order!" The God Head stops them both with authority. "True, those criminals are not to be trusted, but they are a necessary part of the implementation. Dekim Barton is Cast Out, and shall remain so. He was never brought into the Fold and made Kindred. So it stays."

"His lack of loyalty would have merited the Pain and Punishment had he been made Kin..." the Procurator grumbles angrily. "I still believe it is a mistake to let him live."

"The assassination goes as planned. Darlian has created only a slight setback in our efforts, and he shall pay for it with his life. As for the officials and businessmen Dermail controlled, their loyalty can always be purchased; and we will not need their support for long. We will let the various criminals and cartels believe we are still in need of their services," the God Head states. "But we will bring in our own trustworthy hands to handle the more sensitive material."

"Material?" the large man asks. "Then the Superior-?"

"Yes." The Procurator's glee is evident in his voice. "We have made great strides in the project. We have one living sample, a woman."

"A woman! Hah! The madness!" the large man roars. "Still, this means that our goals will be reached soon?"

"Such delicate matters of science are not as quickly gained as fame and fortune," the God Head says. "Manipulating the press and the Secretary of Diplomacy is one matter, Kin of Rite. But creating the Superior race is more difficult than you could understand."

"Scientific skills I may lack," the large man counters, "but the power to keep the blinders on the horse is needed to lead the cart to the desired goal."

"Kin of Rite, I order you, for the good of the Order and the betterment of this world, to continue holding the hand of Ms. Clyne, the Secretary of Diplomacy. Keeping our enemies from overseas at bay is important to our success, especially with the loss of Dermail and the number of foes in this land."

"It shall be done. Do we have any new information on that rabble, those who think they can grab control of this world, which we have supported for so long?"

"No. Those foxes are elusive, and wear many masks..." the Procurator says. Indeed, their foes are as well guarded as they are.

The God Head takes control again, commanding, "Kin Procurator, you will continue to implement the Superior plan. That girl is the first step on a glorious path. I trust you will continue to do your duty, as well as keeping guard for our enemies. I place Kin Neo at your disposal. Use him and his weapons well."

"It shall be done."

"Guard the secrets here divulged! Let us call forth God's blessing on our most holy and esteemed efforts," the God Head invokes prayer.

A longer prayer in the bizarre language is made. The candles are blown out. All is black.

-end, High Council Meeting of the Order,

Part C in Page III of "Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation"

Next: Bad Habits – Quatre's – Cigarettes

ID Notes:

These characters won't be revealed just yet. Are they from Gundam Wing, or aren't they? You'll find out eventually. Much more on the site

Dekim Barton is the head of the Serpent War conflict in Gundam Wing Endless Waltz. He was also involved in the original Operation Meteor, but the 5 Gundam scientists changed things at the last minute and he was not involved in the Operation.

Lacus Clyne (Klein) is a character from Gundam SEED and Gundam SEED Destiny. She is a rich and powerful pop star / political figure in PLANT. I absolutely hate her as she serves as the source of many plot holes and horribly cheesy speeches in those series...

Here she plays the role of Secretary of Diplomacy, sorta a Secretary of State. Basically a government official in charge of maintaining relations with foreign countries.


	19. IIID: Bad Habits: Quatre's: Cigarettes

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple pairings, but 1x2 and 3x4 primarily) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism, all the bad shit you'd expect in real life. Some of the good as well.

Part D in "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

"Bad Habits - Quatre's – Cigarettes

Quatre's POV

It is time for a cigarette.

-When's it not?-

No, it really is time for a cigarette because I just got out of a two hour meeting and it's lunchtime.

I walk out into the bitter February cold. I tap twice at the top of the pack, just to make sure the tobacco is packed down and will burn well. The wind blows out my first match, and my second. I frown, put my back against the wintry gusts, bend down slightly, and use myself as a shield to block it. The tobacco sparks and catches. I chuck the match. It lands next to countless other cigarette stubs. The wind carries it past a nearby trash can and into the street.

Or it's just after lunch, or any other meal.

Something about having a smoke after eating is just so pleasant. I know they say that the smoke kills your taste buds, but that's garbage. I love the taste of a cigarette right after a meal. It helps me digest. It gives you time to think about the conversation or the proposal or whatever was discussed or read up on over the meal.

Or it's after leaving a movie theater or some other non-smoking building.

I rush outside, sometimes without my jacket. It's raining. Whatever, I vow to ignore it. I didn't really feel the need for a smoke, but it's just that now I can finally have one. I can't tell you how much those anti-smoking activists piss me off. Who are they to impose their ideals on my way of life? I take in a defiant drag, exhaling rebelliously. A woman scowls at me as the wind blows the smoke past her child's nostrils. Come on, one puff of second-hand won't kill them.

Or it's the early morning and I'm hungover.

My head hurts. My stomach is queasy. I need something familiar, something soothing. A morning jack is the doctor's orders for both. I may even get lightheaded, like when I was first starting, because I haven't had anything to eat and the nicotine goes straight to my head. Sometimes I just lay in bed, letting the ash fall onto the downy comforters. At night I scowl upon finding a burned hole in the sheets. The maids should know to replace those, or at least sew them up.

Or it's late at night and I'm drunk.

I laugh so much and get so distracted that I hardly even smoke the cigarette at all. Then I light another, determined to really smoke it this time. But then J.P. comes over with some booze or some coke and before I know it I'm even drunker and all I have is a pillar of ash burned down all the way through the filter. I dole out jacks to my friends that have run out like I'm Santa Claus during the holidays.

Or it's late at night and I'm sober, but stressed out from crunching numbers and reading earnings reports.

I go out to the balcony and look out over the city. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only person in the whole world, or like a king surveying his fiefdom. I fall into fantasy, thinking about a gorgeous, but straight, hunk I was introduced to at the country club. I amuse myself with child-like fancy. The cigarette ends, the work is still unfinished. I'm not a king, I've got no knight. I'm not a renegade killer bee, I'm just a regular worker bee. I light another smoke and go back to my dreaming.

Or it's just something else that's stressing me out.

They're talking about promoting Dorothy Catalonia.

//She's better than you//

I practice blowing smoke rings. Nobody is as good at blowing rings as I am.

There's an e-mail going around the office, a parody off of Richie Rich with my face on it.

//Some say the resemblance is more than skin deep//

I ground the fallen ash into the ground. I smash the embers against the marble wall.

Nobody seems to think I'm attractive.

//You're too short. You're too wimpy. You're too fucking blonde[1//

I focus on the fire, the way it burns so fiercely and brightly in the darkness, the light that it casts.

I hold in my breath and wonder, who will ever love me?

//Nobody will ever love you//

I try to only feel the heat of the smoke burning me up from the inside.

Or it's that everyone else is going outside to have a smoke.

Everyone is laughing and having fun. People are comparing their brands. I'm cold and shivering outside, but everyone is out here too. It's too smoky in here and my eyes are burning, but it's the place to be on a Thursday night. I don't really want the cigarette, but I want to feel like I belong.

Or it's someone else asking me to have a smoke with them.

Someone asks me if they can try one. I grant the favor, intent on collecting from it later. They marvel at how good my brand is. They appreciate me, even if its not for the company. I want to impress this person. I can become cool by hanging out with this person.

Or it's right before a big night and I want to smoke my "lucky".

I pull it out, the fabled jack which brings good fortune. I make a silent prayer.

Please make me successful. Please make me beautiful. Please make me happy. Please make me loved.

I place my hopes, my dreams, my insecurities, my wishes into that one last cigarette. I light it on fire like I'm sending up a tiny little flare to heaven.

Please.

Or sometimes it's just the last cigarette left in the pack and the monkey on my back just won't take no for an answer.

-end Quatre's POV

-end "Bad Habits - Quatre's - Cigarettes" Part D in Page III of the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: "Report to Captain Zechs Merquise: Gotham Harbor Raid"

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Notes:

[1 This is ripped directly from Fight Club. I love that movie. The scene is where 'Space Monkey' is trying to find something to shout at 'Blondie' to get him to quit, and all he can think of is, "And you! You're too fucking... ... BLONDE!" You may have noticed the inverse of another line from the book, "You're not a normal worker bee, you're a renegade killer bee."


	20. IIIE: Report on Gotham Harbor Raid

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another, and Gundam Wing fanfiction madness

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemons, 1x2, 3x4, some OZzie lovin') cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, not nice stuff as well as nice stuff.

Part E in "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III of the s4 arc.

Report to Captain Merquise on Gotham Harbor Raid.

Zechs' POV

"So what you're telling me is that our information on the smuggling ring was totally wrong?"

I tried to hide the irritation in my voice, but it was hard. I had personally reached a bargain with a recently arrested crim, a child porn distributor. In exchange for reducing the charges brought against him in court, he had agreed to give us insider information on smuggling operations coming into the Gotham Harbor. The ink had barely begun to dry on the scum's papers and already the move had failed.

But something wasn't right. The crim had struck me as absolutely willing to betray his mob pals. Child pornographers don't tend to make many friends in the city prison. One had recently been choked to death on another inmate's penis while fellating him in the showers.

"I'll bet that son of a bitch lied to us!" The brown haired cop reporting to me slammed his fist in his palm. "I'm telling you, Zechs, that piece of shit fed us that bullshit to save his own ass!"

"Tch..." the other cop, both slightly overweight and over the hill, grunted his dissatisfaction, although more likely at his partner's words than at anything else.

The two in front of me were Sergeant Walker and Sergeant Digandelle. I had personally helped Walker through the Academy, and especially seen to it that he work at my precinct. Walker was a genius in everything involving bullets. He was also a hard-worker and honest, even though he had a tendency to overreact, especially when pride was at stake.

"I don't know about that..." Walker's partner, Digandelle, spoke in a soft, almost mumbling tone. "There was nothing at that warehouse, nothing at all. Renting an entire warehouse on Gotham Harbor isn't cheap. Nobody would pay that much and not use the place."

Digandelle was a veteran of thirty years. He was an unfriendly, unmarried Greek whose short black hair was going grey. His aloof attitude and his inability to look people in the eye made him appear dishonest. But Digandelle's years meant that he was very knowledgeable about Metro City, and he always erred on the side of caution. He and Walker were perfect foils for each other.

"You're suggesting they packed up their operation and relocated?" I asked. Digandelle always had an interesting way of approaching problems from different angles. It was the kind of skill I hoped Walker would pick up. "Or that they knew we were coming?"

"Who knows?" Digandelle shrugged. But that was his flaw; he was lazy and quick to give up. "Black market moves around a lot. It may just have been time for them to close down the shop..."

"It was no coincidence!" Walker snarled. "You're right. An empty warehouse on the harbor... But you know what? I'd be willing to bet that scum tipped them off just before we got there."

"The informant has been locked up since his arrest." I shook my head; it was beginning to hurt. I rubbed at my temples with my index fingers. The throbbing didn't subside. "His phone calls have all been tape-recorded. And if he passed anything along through the others in Holding... well, you know an investigation there is pointless."

"So now what are we going to do about it!?!" Walker insisted. The kid was one of those rare good ones. But, for the love of God, he was the worst person to have around when a migraine was kicking in.

"We have the boys in Analysis looking over some of the stuff left behind," I answered. "But Maiser wasn't too optimistic about it..." Digandelle looked at his watch. Walker opened his mouth to protest. "For now there's nothing more we can do. I want you to finish any paperwork you have before going back out on patrol tomorrow."

"That's fucking bullshit..."

"Care to repeat that, Sergeant Walker? Did you hear my order?!?" I asked threateningly. I dropped my hands from my pounding head to the desk. I stared Walker down. For a blissful second the room was silent, and then the rush of blood created by the burst of anger made me wince.

"Nothing. I apologize, Captain," Walker answered automatically.

"You two can go now," I dismissed them.

Digandelle was out of the room in a moment. Like clockwork, he would be done with his daily and home before dinner. Walker remained standing in front of my desk. I really wanted to throw him out. Most officers in the precinct would have scampered out after being barked at like that. It spoke a lot to the bond I shared with Walker that he was still standing there... and that I wasn't kicking him out on his ass...

"What is it?" I couldn't hide the frustration in my voice.

"Two things, Captain. I'll be brief," Walker promised.

"Go ahead."

"I found this at the Gotham Harbor warehouse we raided today." Walker pulled out a book of matches and threw it on the table in front of me. Candi's, it read in black ink. The 'i' was dotted with a pink heart. "And there's a phone number scrawled down on the inside," Walker continued. It was in pencil, 393-8695.

"You think this is a lead and you want to keep investigating the case," I said. Walker's gung-ho nature was admirable, even if it was predictable. He nodded. "Then why didn't you submit it to Evidence as the regulations demand?" I asked, feeling the rhythmic pain in my head sharpen into pointed stabs. Was Walker trying to make my skull split in two?

"The leak would try to cover the trail if I submitted it to Evidence," Walker answered promptly.

I didn't even blink at the word 'leak'. It was true that information had been getting out about particular cases. Several raids over the past couple months had yielded nothing except familiar tell-tale signs of scrambles to pack up operations and escape with what they could. A gangster about to turn State's Evidence had wound up dead in the bathroom of a safehouse in our district. Une was out for my head... I'd seen bad times in the past– hell, there was no such thing as a good month in this area- but this past stretch wasn't due to the area; the problem was internal...

And it was still only February... the straight middle of it, the 14th. It was shaping up to be a long year...

"You know I should scold you about not following regulations, right?" I asked dryly.

"And tell me that worrying about the leak is your job, not mine. And scold me for not trusting my fellow officers. And that I should _always_ follow regulations." Walker ended with a smile. He had me pegged.

"Who else have you shown this to?" I handed him the matchbook back.

"Just you, sir."

"You don't trust Sergeant Digandelle?"

"I have wondered about him being the leak, yes."

"Hmm..." I rubbed my chin with my thumb. I needed a shave. "What was the second thing you wanted to talk about?"

"You're okay with my breaking regulations on the matchbook?" Walker asked, surprised. The captain ignoring a breach of regulations? What was the world coming to? Desperation.

"What matchbook?" I tried to sound as earnestly clueless as possible. Walker smiled.

"Then, well, I was wondering about Otto," Walker started.

I frowned. Otto... A different sort of pain made the headache feel like it was suddenly nothing.

"He's paralyzed from the waist down. The bullet did irreparable damage to his spinal column. He won't walk again." The words came out of my mouth covered in bile.

"What about getting the bastards that did it to him?" Walker had ice in his eyes.

"None of the eyewitnesses have given us anything good yet," I answered. "The cashier looks like he might start opening up soon, but both Quatre Winner and the student, Asian kid named Chang Wufei, haven't helped at all."

"You think they're covering?"

"Quatre Winner cover for a crim? That would be front page news. He's been in trouble for heavy partying and cocaine before, normal celebrity crap, but no criminal record. The other kid's record is clean too. Noin's precinct is in charge of the investigation, so I haven't met with the witnesses yet." And I felt ashamed for not doing so.

"Let me look into it?" Walker almost didn't ask. He almost demanded it.

I nodded. "We can't allow the trail to go cold."

-end Zechs' POV

-end "Report on Gotham Harbor Raid"

Part E of Page III, "The Concrete Jungle", in the s4 arc.

Next: Same Shit Different Day - terminology:

Crim criminal

Evidence. A subdivision of the police force responsible for insuring that police do not break the law while carrying out their duties. This involves following protocol for building a case against criminals (in case it needs to go to trial), controlling seized goods / funds, and validating said goods and evidence. Each precinct has an Evidence department.

Analysis. A subdivision of the police force responsible for authenticating, validating, evaluating and catologing evidence and seized goods. It is in the same set of subdivisions as Evidence (Oversight). Because of the technical nature of the duties and the expenses involved only a handful of fully sanctioned Analysis subdivisions exist in Metro City, often located away from precincts.

State's Evidence – Evidence provided by a witness or informant that will be used in upper level cases. Because this evidence is used in federal cases, it is pivotal information that has taken a great deal of time and activity to uncover that is further delayed by the formalities of the federal legal system. Usually the provider turns such evidence in order to lessen their own prospective jail time, and they may become targeted by those they are turning evidence against.

Daily – A run down of daily duties / accomplishments that each officer must submit before going home.

ID Notes:

Walker is a young Special officer in Gundam Wing. He is a friend/protégée of Zechs and dies after only one episode. Because I think he's one of the coolest, sexiest Ozzies, he's gotten a better, longer role in my story.

Digandelle is a very minor figure in Gundam Wing, an Alliance officer.


	21. IIIF: Same Shit, Different Day, Trowa's

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another and Gundam Wing fanfiction

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings, primarily 1x2 and 3x4) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part F in "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

Same Shit Different Day – Trowa's

Trowa's POV

Mine was probably the only cab horn not honking furiously. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had to use my horn. More often than not, I could steer around bikers or open car doors, and I'd found that honking to get on someone to move usually just firmed their resolve to go as slowly as they damn well pleased.

Tick. The meter ate another twenty cents out of my passenger's pocket. His fare so far was 7.89, and at the end tax would get added on, adding a little more than a dollar to the total. One minute of idle time cost twenty cents. Every quarter mile covered cost fifty cents. There was a two-dollar fee for just getting in the cab. I could see the street corner, several blocks back in my rear view mirror, where I'd picked up the balding, grumbling man. Every ten seconds he would check his watch and occasionally mutter about how late he was going to be for his train.

The customer grumbled, "Come on, come on. Goddamnit."

The light in front of me, actually six cars in front of me, turned green. Nobody moved. Perpendicular cars blocked the intersecting lanes. The guy at the front of my line leaned on his horn for all he was worth. The cabbie blocking him yelled something back. Behind the cab was a minivan where a pigtailed girl was pressing up against the glass and making faces against the passenger side window. The redheaded woman in the sports car directly in front of me decided she wants to parallel park where the fire hydrant on my direct right was. I go through this almost every day.

"Come on! Look at this! Who lets these people drive? Jesus, I'm going to be late. Come on, come on, come on..." And so on and so forth. City folk are always in such a hurry.

On the radio, Titan Classic started to play "I Can't Tell You Why" by The Eagles. It's turned down real soft, and I can barely hear the guitar plucking over my passenger's cursing and the traffic outside. I started to hum along. I love The Eagles.

"Oh this is ridiculous!" the bald man snapped. In the mirror I saw him grabbing his coat and suitcase. "Let me out already! It'll be faster if I walk!"

The cars in front of me have moved. The redhead in the sports car decided to take her chances with parking on a different street, roaring across the median and nearly running over a crossing businessman on his cell phone.

"Your toll is 9.56," I said politely.

"Wasn't it just 7.90?" the customer sneered, ripping his wallet out of his pocket and spilling subway tokens on the floor.

"Tax," I answered simply.

"Nearly ten and I'm still going to miss my train. Goddamnit."

Now the cars behind me were honking as I sat and waited for my rider to get out.

"Here!" Exasperated, the man threw a torn 10 bill in my general direction. It fluttered under the glove compartment. Scooping his coat and suitcase under his arms, he threw the door open and kicked it shut, then began buffaloing his way through the crowd on the sidewalks.

I turned left onto 2nd Street, heading back towards the main downtown area. Around this time of day, lunchtime, there were lots of good fares to be found around the trendy cafes and shops south of the old Fairgrounds. I also wanted to drive for a little bit and just listen to the radio. Yes, I was aware that I'd get charged for the gas used in-between fares, and that I was struggling to pay this month's rent and my drug dealer as is. But for now all I wanted was to just sit and listen to "I Can't Tell You Why".

Nothing's wrong as far as I can see   
We make it harder than it has to be   
and I can't tell you why   
no, baby, I can't tell you why

"HEY! DO WE HAVE ANYONE NEAR THE COSMOS' BUILDING?" Much louder than the radio, the raspy voice of Circus blared in my cab, and in all other Big Top cabs.

A general clamor of responses, transmission clicks and general hubbub came into Circus' hub back at the Big Top Central Gotham Garage. Circus was the name given to the situational manager for Big Top, Metro City's third largest cab company. I'm not sure why that name was picked, but it accurately described the goings-on at the garage.

"GOTCHA. EL, GO PICK UP THE DIPLOMAT. THE REST OF YOU USELESS SHITS GET SOME LUNCHTIME FARES!"

I had turned off 2nd Street onto Broad Avenue, running straight down the center of Gotham. "I Can't Tell You Why" was coming to an end. It was about time to start looking for a fare.

"0303! WHAT TIME YOU DRIVING UNTIL TODAY?" Circus usually called me by my cab ID number. He could also holler directly into my ear or at any other individual cabs according to the numbers.

"8 PM," I answered into my transmitter. Circus was about to ask me 'for a favor'. He only sent individual transmissions whenever he needed to ask a favor. He wasn't big on the chit chat, that's for sure.

"WILL YOU DO ME A FAVOR, T-BAG?" Circus sometimes called me "T-bag", it was one of the few names I wasn't too fond of. All the other drivers thought it was hilarious.

"What kind of favor?" I asked. Circus was also my connection to a lot of the illegal jobs I pulled. Most of the time it was just a driving job. Point A to Point B.

"BOTH KINDS" Circus answered. He served as a real low, but real important guy in his neck of the Metro underworld woods; knowing every city street and police patrol schedule. Cabs come and go everywhere, all times of the night. It was too good of a setup for the crooks to leave idle, too much money for Circus to say no to.

"I NEED YOU TO WORK THE TRAIN STATIONS IN OLD GOTHAM UNTIL MIDNIGHT" I held back a groan. Now that was the kind of favor that'll keep me sitting in my cab for twelve plus hours straight...

"AND COME BACK TO THE GOTHAM HARBOR GARAGE WHEN YOU'RE DONE"

Now that was the kind of favor that paid in a cash-filled, blank envelope. Usually those 'favors' involved ferrying people, much like my legitimate job. Painted women dressed up in short skirts doing their make-up as I took them from customer to customer. Silent men hidden by hats and sunglasses counting drug money as I took them from spot to spot. Occasionally it was just me, a briefcase, and classic rock.

"No pickup or drop point?" I asked. Going back to the garage meant that the job wasn't a driving one.

"DAMNIT, T-BAG, I ASKED IF YOU COULD GO TO THE GODDAMNED GOTHAM HARBOR GARAGE WHEN YOUR SHIFT ENDS. CAN YOU DO THAT OR NOT?" I could hear Circus's spit hit the microphone.

"Yeah," I answered. I really did need the money. I also didn't mind the long work day.

"AND KEEP YOUR YAP SHUT ABOUT THIS!" Circus ordered.

"Yeah," I repeated. "I've got a fare, 0303 out." I clicked off the transmission while pulling up to the curb. The fare was a rich one, and quite a looker at that.

"2000 Prospect Boulevard, Zodiac Pharmaceuticals' building, please." He spoke without even looking at me, focused on the electronic planner in his hand. But he spoke kindly, not simply demanding like most of the fares did.

As I glided back into the chaotic traffic, the young man made a phone call using the Blackberry. "Yes, this is Rey. Connect me immediately." I looked back at him through the rearview.

He was very young, and very feminine. Despite being dressed in an all-white business suit, blue designer shirt and silk red tie, you could easily mistake him for a woman. He had platinum blonde hair that started to curl around his shoulders. His boyish face was the creamiest of whites. His blue eyes stared straight ahead as he waited patiently for the person on the phone. I almost ran a red light because I was staring so hard at him through the mirror. I'll admit it, I have a thing for blondes...

"Rau?" He asked into the phone, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Yes, this is Rey. Yes." 'Rey' had one of those voices that showed maturity and calm, soft and level.

I turned onto the Prospect Bay Parkway, a little shortcut to avoid the traffic that perpetually clogs downtown Gotham. The PBP ran along the bottom tip of Gotham, then swung northward, two exits after City Hall, following Prospect Bay, which lead out into the ocean. It was actually a roundabout way to get to the fare's destination, but it would be faster at this time of day.

"No, the results were not what we'd hoped," Rey was still speaking on the phone. I had hoped to strike up some kind of conversation with him, although what about I had no clue. "The investors from Tokyo are also still very critical." Stupid me... Hell, I probably wouldn't be able to come up with anything to say, as usual... "It seems that the adrenaline releasers were overworked. They need more time to regenerate, too much time." It was a dumb idea anyway, trying to mingle with an obviously up-and-coming beauty like this one. "He is still stable though. Yes."

The classic rock station took a break for commercials. Another phone rang. It was also Rey's. He pulled it out of the pocket on the inner breast of his suit coat.

"I have a call from Gil, I have to take this," he said, resigned. The smile wavered a little bit. "Yes, I'll have him call you right away. Yes, I'll make sure the meeting with Septum is pushed back to Monday. Yes. Goodbye, Rau."

I turned off the Prospect Bay Parkway, immediately hitting a wall of tourist line buses. Still, it was probably under a minute to the destination. The fare meter ticked its way past 15. Taking the PBP accumulated mileage very quickly.

"Gil." Rey's voice wavered. It finally showed something of his youth, in the respect and admiration that made his pale face flush. "It's Rey."

The radio station was still droning on through commercials. Most stations were owned by Titan Entertainment, the Metro City based media and entertainment company, the nation's largest. That meant that Metro radio stations had the highest average of commercial time per hour, something that really bugged me. Not like I even had the money to buy half the stuff they advertised...

"The tracking failure was reported to be because of mechanical error... but more likely..." Rey continued. He was going through his wallet as I turned onto Prospect Blvd. "No word on any activity. The three of them are reported to have met yesterday. Yes, all three. They're here. Yes, it's been confirmed."

Without a word, the beautiful, random man that stepped into my car handed me a 50 bill. I started to go through the change drawer, but he was already getting out of the car. He shook his head and gave me a polite smile. Somehow I was reminded of Quatre.

On the radio they started to play The Rolling Stones, "You Can't Always Get What You Want".

"The latest installment should be ready on the 9th... Moving at 11 at night. No. No, I don't believe there's any need to change our plans." And he shut the door and I was back to work.

But if you try sometimes, you might find you get what you need

-end Trowa's POV

-end "SSDD: Same Shit, Different Day – Trowa's-

Part F of Page III, "In the Concrete Jungle" in the "Sex Substances, Sin and Salvation" arc.

Next part: Not so Private Phone Call

WhenShootingStarFalldotcom

ID Notes:

Circus is the name I gave to Trowa's boss. He is slightly based off the guy who runs the traveling circus Trowa joins in Gundam Wing. The head of the circus in Wing was never named, that I know.

Rey is Rey Z Burrel from Gundam SEED Destiny. He is a young ZAFT soldier and absolutely my favorite character from that show. He is also possibly the most beautiful bishounen in any Gundam show ever.

You've heard the names of the people Rey is talking to on the phone before.

Notes:

Songs are owned by The Eagles and The Rolling Stones, specifically. The name of the radio station is a reference to an older Gundam series.


	22. IIIG: Not so Private Phone Call

FanfictionDOTNet's wonderful auto-formatting makes this chapter nearly impossible to read. While I do want to provide the best story I can to the most readers possible, there is no way I can sort through all different formatting and strange character exclusions in order to present it to you here. This chapter is going to be almost impossible to follow because of the site's formatting, so I again encourage you to read it on my site, or on mediaminer. Thank you masa

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Part G of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

Not so Private Phone Call

POV?

A phone rings.

It is answered.

Nothing, then:

"Secure?"

"Secure."

Voices unidentifiable.

"What time do you have?"

"9:33 PM, Standard Time, February the 14th-"

"I know what day it is! Just-"

"Quit jabbering! Everything ready?"

"Ready."

"Ready."

"Launching Meteor."

A phone rings elsewhere.

Connection 1 [ C-1 : "Hello?"

It is answered.

Intelligence officer [ID -941 : "Please hold for Minister Aznable."

C-1 : "Certainly."

A third phone rings elsewhere.

"Oh hey! I think I got a grip on this call!"

"Encoded at all?"

The third phone rings again.

Again.

Again.

"Is it feeding us a bogus channel?"

"No. I think it's just ringing."

A fourth ring.

A fifth.

Connection 2[ C-2 : "What is it?"

It is answered.

"It's a live one."

"Fantastic! Make sure we back it up."

[ C-1 : "Is this line secure?"

[ C-2 : "Of course. Hurry up, I don't have all day."

[ C-1 : "I've just been informed by our old friend that there was a scare, that last night one of our import locations was suddenly raided by the local police."

[ C-2 : "So?"

[ C-1 : "They had to rush move crucial biological material; the subjects all rotted in transportation... More importantly, there were parts for a new particle accelerator, crucial to the Director project. Only a last minute tip from an insider saved it all from being seized."

[ C-2 : "What do I have to do with this?"

[ C-1 : "Char... I expect that you, as Minister of Intelligence, would be in the position to keep us more well informed. That is all."

[ C-2 : Identified as Minister of Intelligence, Char Aznable: "May I remind you that I am the only reason why President Garma and the others aren't hanging us from the scaffolding for treason right now?"

"My god! Can you confirm this?"

"One of the satellites vectoring in that line's output is blocking me from getting exact information."

"Not even a rough estimate?"

"Hahahaha. So Minister Aznable is their column in the federal government."

"Would you old fools pipe down and listen already?!"

"Who are you calling old, you clawed relic?"

[ C-2 : "I hardly see this as my responsibility... My meddling in ordinary police issues would be suspicious. We both know whose fault this is... He has connections that the rest of us must depend on."

[ C-1 : "As do we all, the reason we're united on this godly ambition."

[ C-2 : "Please, stop with the sentimental semantics. They may say you have a silver tongue, but it is wasted on me. Like I said, I don't see how I'm involved in this."

[ C-1 : "Treize Kushrenada intends to become the mayor of Metro City in a few days. He may become an obstacle."

[ C-2 : "There's nothing I can do about that. The President is content with Kushrenada being out of the running for his presidency. He could win in a landslide against any opponent at the polls. If anything, Dullindal, I'd think that you should put some pressure on Zala, especially since the problem is on the local level. Isn't he your pork-barrel buddy there?"

"I told you Dullindal would lead us right to the rest!"

"It's my wonderful hacking skills that led us to this find!"

"We all took equal parts in drafting the programs."

"Hush! There's no point in us bickering."

"Yeah, quiet down. We should still watch out for anyone else that could be riding this frequency."

"You know, I never even thought about that..."

[ C-1 : Identified as Senator Gilbert Dullindal: "Both the governor and I only have minimal sway over local police procedures."

[ C-2 : "Listen, there is a solution for this. We tell the 4th that his boys need to be more careful while moving our goods."

[ C-1 : "I agree. However, federal agents with high clearance could make a big difference in our favor."

[ C-2 : "How many hands do you need? I'll lend them. Wait. You know what? We can work this out later. I have to catch a flight."

[ C-1 : "Fine. Your cooperation and effort is appreciated... as always..."

[ C-2 : "Goodbye."

Connection 2 hangs up.

[ C-1 : "Hmph."

Connection 1 hangs up.

"Shit, ended just as it was getting good!"

"We still got a great amount of information out of it."

"Char Aznable gives us a new angle to approach this from."

"And a new angle to worry about being attacked from..."

"You should stop being such a pessimist!"

"Hey! Hey- shut up! Do you all hear that?"

"Another rider on the frequency?"

"What? Is there really someone else listening in?"

"Hush! Quit your blabbing!"

"Damnit! There is someone else on here!"

"Could they have heard us? They must have been on before we were!"

"Disengage program!"

"They'll already be locked onto us. We've been on the channel for so-"

Hangup.

-end "Not so Private Phone Call"

Part G of Page III in the "Sex Substances Sin and Salvation" arc.

Next: Bad Habits – Duo's – Sex

Lemon ahoy matees.

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

ID Notes:

Char Aznable. Please say you know who he is. Ok, ok. In case you don't, he is the Red Comet, the father of all masked baddies in any Gundam show and all subsequent knockoffs. He is from the original Mobile Suit Gundam, the first Gundam show. He is one of the coolest anime villains ever. Here he is the Minister of Intelligence, think of him as head of both the CIA and FBI.

Briefly mentioned here, the Governor of where Metro City is located, Patrick Zala from Gundam SEED. He will play only a minor role in this story, so don't sweat him.

Five people bickering, hacking into government channels, have a program called Meteor, one has a claw. Can you guess who these chaps might be?

One little funny note:

Can those of you who've seen Mobile Suit Gundam and Gundam SEED Destiny try to imagine what a phone conversation between Char and Dullindal might sound like? Well, if you're having trouble it's because they're both voiced by the same (excellent) voice actor, Shuuichi Ikeda!


	23. IIIH: Bad Habits: Duo's: Sex

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (graphic lemon in this part, primarily 1x2 and 3x4, multiple multiple pairings) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Note: I know many many people go nuts about Duo being stereotyped as a skank/slut, but out of the five pilots, who else would you pick to be the most promiscuous?

Part H of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

Bad Habits - Duo's - Sex

Duo's POV

It was another late night at the Scrap Yard, the strip club I work at every now and then. The Scrap Yard's on the STD infested cock hanging off of Roosevelt Island, smack in-between Gotham and Metropolis, right on the water facing south out into bay. Once upon a time, Roosevelt had been all roses and strawberry-smelling farts, one of the richest parts of Metro. Then it became "cool" to live in Gotham proper, then in the burbs. Then, the government stepped in and starting building public housing on Roosevelt.

Today, the Island sure wouldn't appear on any episode of 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous'. Now it was one run-down, cramped as shit collection of us poor folk living in the government operated projects. Misery in a sardine sized tin.

The Scrap Yard is a sorta typical celebration of Roosevelt Island's shitiness. And it's also the place where you can stuff singles in my G-string every couple nights.

Shit, it was already 2AM by the time I finished dancing, to mixed results, as usual. You see, Scrap Yard is a "gentleman's club", except for Tuesdays which is Ladies' Night (aka. Male dancers night), so the customers are mostly dudes. And there really is nothing gentle about the dudes. What kind of 'not gentle' are we talking? You ever get groped with a lit cigarette? _That _kind of gentle... Which I think is part of why I work there...

So you can imagine the shock newcomers get when the leggy piece of ass with the long chestnut braid strips off the stuffed dress to reveal the truth underneath. "It's a man baby!" for real. Howard, the owner of the Scrap Yard, and some of the regulars get a huge laugh out of the popping eyes of the unsuspecting when they get a load of old Duo Maxwell. The super rare chicks that show up also love me. Unfortunately, the occasional broad is about the only person who slips any money into my black g-string after I reveal my true sex. So, I try to really milk the pre-revelation part of my show.

Tonight I had my eye on this one young guy. He had paid a lot of attention to me during the show. And even after I stripped off everything but the thong, shaking my barely hidden package in his face, he still eyed me pretty good, even if he was blushing and trying to hide it. A closet case or 'just curious' guy is fun once and awhile, I'd decided.

And, as I shuffled through the crowd on this Friday night, I got it into my head to find this guy. Heero had returned my call to his pager once, and only once, hanging up soon as he figured out who it was. It had been late; I had been shitfaced and near the place we'd met. Of course I was going to call him! But the gorgeous psycho had brushed me off again. Fucking loser...

"Hey there, sexy." I snuck up on my prey from behind. He was short and young, and his wavy brown hair needed a haircut; I love messy hair. He turned around, his big green saying everything that his inebriated mouth couldn't.

Holy shit, it's the male dancer! Why's he hitting on me? ...not like I mind... Or some shit like what you'd find in some teenager's gay romance fantasy.

"Um... hi." He was very shy, most of them are before they lose that 'been with a man' part of their V-card. And, as you can tell, I was a man on a mission, a de-virginizing mission. The kid glanced around nervously, checking to see that nobody was looking at him. All the eyes were glued to the girls on stage. I mean, come on, it's a friggin' strip club!

"Wanna private dance?" I got right to the point. "I'll make it extra cheap for a cutie like you."

"I- um, um, I- you," he stuttered hopelessly. I was going to have to hold his hand through this one. Rookies... "You know, I'm actually n-... Um... well. You know Millie? Right? Well..."

Finally to the point! Millie Haw was one of the part-time girls at the Scrap Yard. She was from a poor family, a struggling photographer (if she had any brains she'd figure out she'd make more money posing for the pics instead of taking them), so she danced and did tricks to pay the rent. She was a young redhead who was never afraid to tell everyone her opinion. She frowned on the fact that the rest of us did drugs. She was a real annoying bitch sometimes.

"It's not cheating if it's with a guy," I tried to convince the kid. "Besides, Millie's giving a private dance to some old guy up on the second floor. Actually, it's been going on a little long-"

"It's cause we're both poor and-"

I clapped my hand over his mouth; not hard, just enough to shut him up. I leaned closer to him, whispering into his ear, "It's against the rules; but you can touch all you like."

I pulled away to see his reaction. I could see the one in his pants, I just needed to check if his brain was going to follow. His mouth hung open. He was breathing heavily. His bleary green eyes looked at me to give him direction. I took him by his hand and pulled him up from the bar stool. He didn't resist. This was different, yet familiar all at the same time. I was the dominant one. I was the aggressive one.

"What's your name?" I asked as I led him towards the private booths.

"Tolle," he answered.

"Yeah, yeah, I've seen you in here on nights that Millie dances. You come with that fashion designer, what's his name?"

"Sai, Sai Argyle."

"You all friends or something?"

"We grew up together in the R2 Projects."

"Roosevelt Islanders for life, huh? Take a seat there, baby." I pushed him into a silk armchair.

There we were. Private room #5. The four previous rooms were all occupied, music blaring from each in an attempt to hide whatever got whoever was in there off. With a set of loud, grainy speakers and a rickety CD player, private room #5 was no exception to the Yard's standard of excellence. I picked "The Warmth", by Incubus. Not the best song to dance to, but quite fitting for the moment. Any exotic, Eastern style dance can be used to fill the first minute of spacey instrumental.

"I-I'm not sure this is a good idea," Tolle tried to protest, eyes rapt on my swaying hips. "I have a girlfriend and-"

So I just leaned forward and kissed him. He leaned into it, and his mouth opened easily to my advancing tongue. I batted his pink fleshy organ back and forth for a few seconds, applying a gentle pressure on his lips. They tasted like Bittersweet Schnapps, delicious.

I stood up, pelvis thrusting directly in front of his face, running my hands through my hair, down over my chest, onto his. He sucked in a helpless breath as I played with his nipples, plucking and massaging through his T-shirt until they were hard.

I'd like to close my eyes, go numb

But there's a cold wind coming from

From the top of the highest high-rise today

"Take off your shirt," I told him.

It's not a breeze cuz it blows hard

Yes and it wants me to discard, the humanity

And I watch the warmth blow away

I shivered slightly in the cold room, now naked. I turned around. Tolle had his shirt in his hand, without a clue what to do with it. A submissive one for certain... I grabbed it out of his hand and began to dance with it. _I_ knew what to do. Stretching it across my chest, pointedly smelling it for his scent, rubbing it in between my legs, dangling it from in between my legs.

So don't let the world bring you down.

Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.

"Take off your pants." Again, I was the one giving the commands. Tolle obeyed.

Remember why you came;

and while you're alive,

experience the warmth before you grow old.

One of the problems with picking up drunks is that sometimes the combo of pressure, excitement, and the booze stops them from getting hard. From Tolle's flushing cheeks and the minuscule cocklet sticking out from his bush, I could tell I was going to have a time getting him prepped and hard.

I sauntered over to him, moving to the music unabashedly. I turned around and bent over, sticking my ass up at him.

"Go ahead," I encouraged, hands on my knees, hair falling into my face.

Slowly, slowly, Tolle's hands reached out towards my pale, white cheeks. I could hear him breathing hard, and the pounding of a chair against the floor in the next room. Finally, he placed his hands on my flesh, burning hot in the unheated room. I gasped. Tolle kneaded my bubble butt with his hungry fingers, growing bolder every second.

So don't let the world bring you down

He stuck a finger into my pucker. I made it twitch, and his digit sunk into the knuckle. I started to get hard. Nothing like nice hot flesh in my ass to start me up. Taking a firm hold on my hips, Tolle began to pull me backwards. I looked over my shoulder at him.

"Can I taste it?" he asked, the little fag.

I grinned, swinging my legs up into the air so that they straddled the armchair, my knees over his shoulders, presenting my ass to his face as asked. The chair groaned, but I knew it would hold at least three times the weight we had on it. "Eat me," I demanded.

Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.

Tolle's tongue tickled my shaved ass playfully. It lapped at the salty skin, no doubt a little sweaty from the long night of dancing. Getting up on one hand, I took my now erect cock in the other, slapping it backwards between my cheeks and hitting him on the chin. Tolle's tongue snaked its way into my tight ass, flicking over my insides like it was ice cream. I imagined it belonged to Heero.

Remember why you came; and while you're alive

Sprawled backwards over his shoulders, I was purposefully facing Tolle's semi-flacid cock. Leaving my own rigid length alone, I switched my supporting hand and started pumping his dick with the other. I licked at Tolle's length vigorously, a meat flavored lollipop. He let out a surprised breath, teeth nipping into my ass. A drop of precum dangled from my cock. I love being bitten, I'm just a slut that way.

Tolle got over the alcohol fast, cock swelling as I nursed it with my wet mouth. I made sure to flick the sensitive tip with my tongue ring as often as possible. Tolle's was on the small side, less than six inches and not very thick. But it pulsated with heat and began to steadily churn out a healthy leak of jizz. I slapped his dick against my face, layering it in the tepid stickiness. He began to eat my ass for real, jabbing his tongue in as far as it would go. Like a good whore, I began to deep throat his meat, fondling his balls as I sucked hard and circled his length with my tongue like a snake. It pulsed in my mouth like a burning log.

I wanted it inside me.

"I want you to fuck me."

Experience the warmth before you grow

Beneath the left arm of the chair was a little flip-down compartment. Inside it was a small dildo, lube, and a button, 'Press three times for Security', just in case things got a little too kinky. Besides customers withholding payment I've only called security once, and that was to make it a little _more _kinky.

cold

Anyhow, out comes the lube and the dildo. I smeared a small glop on the dildo, a third of the tube, to grease my right hand. I knelt down in front of Tolle, who was quivering and licking the inside of his mouth with his Maxwell-blessed tongue. I crammed the dildo up in between my legs. It goes in without resistance; let's be honest, I've had plenty of things, plenty bigger, up there in the recent past. Still, the sensation, the feeling of being fleshed out made me gasp and shudder, even though the fill faded quickly.

I worked Tolle's cock with long, deliberate strokes, coating his length. The squishy, semi-aqueous sound filled the room. There was a brief gap between the song looping. Squish, squelch, slop. I jacked his dick three times, paying special attention to his knob, slobbing it up with my caresses. Tolle's head was against the back of the chair, his breathing hard, dick throbbing in beat with his heart. Squish, pulse, moan, squish.

I'd like to close my eyes go numb...

I pulled the dildo out of my ass, standing up. Tolle's eyes flew open as I let go of his dick. It flopped against his stomach, the lube and precum slime sticking to the few faint hairs there. I stared him in the face. He returned the look through glazed, lusty green orbs. I waited; I wanted to hear him say it.

And I watch the warmth blow away

"Please," Tolle begged. I was going to be the one doing the fucking. "Please." He was such a cute, submissive fag. Hah! A girlfriend... what a waste of a bottom bitch.

So don't let the world bring you down.

Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold.

I threw one leg over the side of the chair, the other over his opposite shoulder, straddling, aiming. Tolle leaned forward so I could wrap an arm around his neck. I hid the dildo in my other, slack at my side. I began to lower myself down. His tip pushed against my pucker, his breath was hot on my neck, his hands roved over my back.

Remember why you're here; and while you're alive

I let out a sharp gasp of breath as all of Tolle's five-something inches were swallowed up inside of me in one quick motion. My hips began to work on their own, greedily back and forth, hungrily up and down. Tolle let out a string of meaningless grunts and vowels as his eyes went wide. I stared deep into those big emerald pools of faggyness and leaned forward, darting my tongue into his mouth.

Experience the warmth before you grow cold

"Yeah, you like that. Uh, uh, yeah" I murmured porno encouragement to the boy, whose balls I could already feel tightening up, already getting close to climax. "Christ, your cock is so big. Oh! You're the best. Jesus. Oh, ugh, yeah, yeah." Somewhere deep down in the darkness of my soul all this lying got to me and I couldn't resist commenting, "I'll bet Millie isn't half as tight as me, is she?"

So don't let the world bring you down.

I began to buck my hips harder and faster, milking Tolle for everything he was worth, which really wasn't much. Not only was he small for my tastes, but I could tell he was going to blow his load any minute now. No stamina, a shame. He was already grunting, his eyes glazed over in that pre-cum bliss.

I pulled up off of him just a moment before he would have exploded inside of me. His dick wetly flopped against his stomach. I lay out on the floor, legs wide, like the whore I was. I shivered against the tile, teasing Tolle over to me with a beckoning finger.

Not everyone here is that fucked up and cold

The kid jumped on me like I was the last piece of meat in the world. The boiling swirl of lust and desire had shut down all the meekness and timidness from earlier. Tolle grabbed his cock and thrust back inside of my waiting body without holding back. He began pounding into me for all he was worth.

Remember why you came and while you're alive

Tolle shut his eyes, hips pumping into me, frenzied, hot. I smiled and wrapped my arms around his back, pulling him deeper inside. His eyes fluttered open at the touch, but he shut them quickly, escaping into some fantasy again. To him my hands were probably Millie's hands, my ass her cunt. I wondered what he imagined my cock, rubbing into his chest, was? Moving down to his waist, my hand fingered the small dildo.

I smiled. I wasn't Millie.

Experience the warmth

I shoved the plastic cock into Tolle's ass. His eyes opened wide. It was a pretty small one, but I doubt that made a difference to him. I squirmed my arm against the resistance, pushing it in a little further.

"Oh fuck!" Tolle's body locked up, his eyes squeezed shut. The sensations from his prostate pushed him well over the edge. He thrust in one last time, his balls spasming against my shaved asscrack. He came.

Before you grow cold

Tolle's cock shot the hot seed inside of my bowels. I loved the slick heat that slowly spread through my gut. I pulled the dildo out of him and he opened his eyes.

Experience the warmth before you grow cold

Satisfaction. At that moment Tolle could have looked at a baby being fed to piranhas and still had that completely satisfied look in his eyes.

But it was only one moment.

Not quite satisfaction. His mouth opened dumbly. There was something wrong. What was it?

Sadness. He frowned now as it dawned on him: It's over and you won't be able to get back to that moment for at least another twenty minutes (unless you're on Viagra or X or something).

Guilt. His eyes were open now and the fantasy couldn't hold up. He wasn't looking down at Millie. He was looking down on a whore, another guy even.

Anger. It was to be expected. Yeah, I might have been a little aggressive, but the kid had gone along with it on his own. And to bitch about the dildo in the ass thing, well, come on, he liked it, even if he'd never ever tell any of his friends about it.

And then he shuddered, his body still gasped in the post-orgasm spell. All the emotions came together.

before you grow cold...

The track began to repeat again.

-end Duo's POV

-end "Bad Habits – Duo's – Sex (with Tolle)"

Part H of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: "Schoolteachers are fucking assholes"

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

ID Notes:

Tolle Koenig is a minor character in Gundam SEED. He is a friend of the show's main character and a pretty normal guy. I always thought he was cute (in a sorta dorky/goofy way), so I've put him in a lemon!

Howard is Howard. Yup, Hawaiian shirt Howard from Gundam Wing. He rocks.

Millialia Haw (Millie) is another minor character in Gundam SEED. She is damn cool and a pretty sexy woman. She actually is Tolle's girlfriend in SEED.

Sai Argyle is yet another minor character from the same group of friends in Gundam SEED. He is nerdy as hell and dresses in these crazy outfits that made me cast him in this story as a fashion designer.


	24. IIII: Professors are Assholes

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple multiple pairings) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part I in "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc

"Professors are Assholes"

Wufei's POV.

"Hello, professor."

"Hello, Wufei. How are you today?"

"Fine, thank you. You know, nothing to complain about."

"I suppose our strenuous classes keep you busy most of the time."

"That's the reason for our meeting, isn't it? I need you, as my academic advisor, to sign off on my intended course of study for this semester."

"Indeed, your proposed courses are exactly what I wanted to talk to you about."

Professor Tsubarov had a massive nose, one of those long, gnarled noses that curls downwards like a sudden cliff on a canyon. In fact, the man's nose was only the most pointed- pardon the play on words- and pronounced feature showcasing his unpleasantness. In short, Tsubarov was a very ugly man. Despite this, everyone in the University knew that he was a very conceited man, and although it may be physically impossible, he was often turning his nose up at others. Today I was the subject of his distaste.

"You've done very well in the past three years here, Wufei," Tsubarov began nicely. It was a sham to lure students into confidence before he tore it all down. Studying under this man, and the fact that he was my advisor, had revealed all of his distasteful conversational techniques, which I secretly swore not to adopt in my own behavior.

"I have a perfect 4.0 grade point average," I said rather abrasively. I wasn't going to let him just ignore my hard earned past achievements.

"Yes, yes you have." Tsubarov took a look at my transcript. The completed courses ranged from neurochemistry to advanced psychology, all science courses, all very difficult. My grades weren't fluff, like certain humanities students... "That's why I volunteered to become your academic advisor. I want to guide you in the right direction, Wufei."

I said nothing. I was going to be damned if Tsubarov or anyone else led me by the nose- (I'm sorry about the constant puns. But have you ever seen how enormous that man's nose is? It's as if he inherited it from an ancient bird of prey!)- or whatever 'guiding' Tsubarov wanted to do for me.

The man was a leader in his field, constantly receiving sensitive data from corporations on the cutting-edge of physics, chemistry and biology. His opinion held a lot of sway in many academic circles.

"Let me see..." Tsubarov lifted his reading glasses up, pretending to need to reread my proposed course of study for the upcoming semester. "Independent Study: Chemistry, Independent Study: Biology, Psychology and Medicine, Advanced Neurological Psychology, The Psychosomatic Effects of Drug Use." Tsubarov put down the paper. He wasn't smiling.

"Is there a problem with that selection?" I asked defiantly, knowing damn well there was, at least in the eyes of the narrow-minded man facing me.

"Well..." Tsubarov leaned forward, making me back away for fear that he would poke me in the eye with his nose. "I couldn't help but notice that there are no Physics courses there."

"I know that," I replied coldly.

"Wufei, I thought you and I had come to the understanding that, to make the most out of your time here at the University, you were going to pursue a triple major in the applicable sciences."

"Chemistry, biology and psychology," I couldn't help but say the last with a smile. Tsubarov had gone off on many rants bashing psychology as a crackpot occupation, hardly comparable with the true sciences like-

"Not physics?" Tsubarov tried to sound surprised. Instead, he sounded angry.

"No," I answered firmly.

"Wufei, how do I say this?" Tsubarov massaged the bridge of his nose. It could span the Avalon Bridge. "You will find that a thorough background in physics will be far more useful to you after college than anything else. The world is changing, but it must always obey the laws of physics. Engineers the world over are required to have at least a concentration in-"

"I don't intend to be an engineer after college." I dropped the bomb.

Tsubarov stared at me as if I'd sprouted horns. He'd done that once, when I came to lecture tripping on acid, or at least I swore I'd seen something resembling horns sticking out of his greying hair. How was I to explain to him that my goal was to create the most potent psychosomatic drugs that the world had ever seen? How was he, a man with no imagination, supposed to understand my goals?

"Wufei, I seriously ask you to reconsider..." Tsubarov came out asking nicely. That was somewhat of a shock to me until he added, "I had already pegged you in as one of my personal assistants in the lab for next year." The hidden threat was implied in the way he spoke the final bit, like one holds out a child's toy with the intent of pulling it back and stashing it on some high shelf at the first sign of disobedience.

"I would greatly like to continue researching with you, Professor Tsubarov." I threw the old dog a metaphorical bone, forcing a very thin smile.

"You'll need more of the next level of physics to do so. If you don't get that, starting this semester, I'm afraid I won't be able to include you in as many experiments." He cut to the quick. The threat was delivered as an ultimatum.

I was ready to call his bluff. I was the brightest student assistant he had, sometimes even catching his mistakes. He needed me in the lab. There was no way he would go on without me over this petty departure in interests. He was an arrogant and narrow mindedly stubborn man, but he was a scientist, and with all the cold, rational logic of one.

I stared Tsubarov in his old, crotchety face and threw the dagger. "I'm ready to leave the lab, with all due respect Professor, if that's what it takes for me to pursue my path."

"You..." Tsubarov cut himself off, his scowl doing the cursing instead. He leaned back in his chair, regrouping.

"And if you don't agree to sign off on my intended course of study, then I have no problem asking the Engineering College here at the University to assign me to an academic advisor that will." I kept him on the defensive, hoping to back him into the corner. "Dean Hendrickson is quite understanding about students wishing to pursue their respective academic paths."

I got up to leave. The ball was in Tsubarov's court now.

"Wait!" Tsubarov caught it with his mouth, like a dog. "One moment, I've just thought of a compromise."

I sat down again, giving him a hard look that said, "I'm willing to hear your plea, but make it good and make it fast."

"I will personally be your tutor for your independent study _in_ _physics_," Tsubarov offered. His ego knew no bounds. Like that would get me to bite...

"I can't keep up with six courses in one semester." I shook my head. Although I honestly could... I simply chose not to...

"Drop that–that _druggies_ and psychology garbage you intend to take. You'll thank me! That Professor Izquiarda, who teaches that class, is, you'll find, nothing more than a burned out, hippie libertarian with only the wildest of lessons and ideas." Tsubarov tried to use his leverage as my elder to sway me. That wasn't going to happen.

"I'm sorry. My mind is made up." I got up to leave.

"A shame..." Tsubarov said as I hoisted my book bag over my shoulders and walked toward the door. "And you always seemed so eager to use the equipment in the Einstein Memorial Wing..."

I stopped dead in my tracks, facing the shut door. The EMW! Was he serious?

"You would clear me to use the EM Wing?" I turned around. The Einstein Memorial Wing housed the University's most expensive and advanced equipment and materials. It was for professors' research only, absolutely off limits to students... unless they came in with the professor, of course. "Can you even do that?"

"Of course! Of course, my boy." Tsubarov smiled triumphantly. Suddenly his defiant, genius pupil was like a puppet on strings. "As my personal research assistant you'll have to spend quite a bit of time in that wing, I dare say!"

I could taste the restricted chemicals and forbidden compounds on my tongue. They would taste like a cold piece of metal, but in liquid form. It was a sensation somewhat akin to swallowing death whole. Well, I mean, that is what most drugs do to you, poison you straight towards your physical and mental limitations until...

"I also want clearance to the EMW to pursue my Independent Studies in biology and chemistry," I added another condition.

At that, Tsubarov frowned. "I can only clear you for my personal research studies," he said, feigning sadness. "Not even I can get you in there to play mad scientist, or whatever you wish to do, unless it's on my watch."

"Then agree to chaperon me into the EMW when I need materials for my other classes," I tried.

"We'll see. I'll do what I can," Tsubarov answered cryptically.

"...done. I'll need to drop Professor Izquierda's class, of course," I smiled. Access to the EMW was worth giving up any class! And besides, with access to that treasure trove, I'd surely be having an Independent Study of my own on the psychological effects of drugs!

-end Wufei's POV

-end "Schoolteachers are Assholes"

Part I of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: Politics as Usual - Zabi Investigation into Secret Group in Metro City

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

ID Notes:

Professor Tsubarov is a quite important character from Gundam Wing. He invents the Mobile Doll system, develops the Virgo MS and puts a bullet in Lady Une. He really has a huge ugly shnazz.

Professor Izquierda is nobody. Izquierda is Spanish for "left" referring to the liberal leaning of anyone who'd teach a class about drugs.

Dean Hendrickson is nobody.

Einstein was a genius.


	25. IIIJ: Politics as Usual Federal

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (including graphic lemon, multiple but 1x2 and 3x4 as main pairing) cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Part J of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

"Politics as Usual - Zabi Investigation into Secret Metro City Group"

"You asked to see me, President Garma?"

"You don't need to call me 'President', Gihren. I'm your younger brother for crying out loud."

"You're still the President Elect of this country." Gihren remains stiff and formal. There are no guards or anyone else in the President's personal office, but he is not one to take chances. The walls too may have ears. They learned from Richard Nixon.

"Gihren, the only reason I'm president and you aren't is because I have a pretty face, am single, and that somehow goes a long way with the female voters."

"You are also a great leader."

"Please! I got father's charisma; you got his brains. And I'm still not sure if I should be happy or jealous because of that... Though, somehow, I also happened to come out good-looking. Must have been from mom."

"May I ask why you called me, P-... Garma?"

Gihren is always strictly business. As the Vice-President, more is demanded from him on a daily basis than from his younger brother. No press conferences, makeup sessions, flights abroad or diplomatic meetings mean that he has more time to pursue his carefully drafted objectives. An observant insider would say that Gihren is more crucial to the running of the nation than President Garma.

"A foreign threat, Gihren,"

"Threat? I've not received news of any threats," Gihren replies.

Garma Zabi turns around in his swivel chair. He is a very handsome man. His violet tinted hair frames his still boyish face in a way that makes women swoon. His eyes are large and an enchanting purple, accented by long black lashes. His chin, nose and cheeks are perfect, surgically made so. He is not a tall man, but he has a serious, fiery demeanor that demands respect. He is the youngest president ever, and well-supported by the allies of his father, a great statesman of the past.

"The Kindred of the Order, for one," Garma says darkly.

"Aren't they nothing more than a rich gentleman's club for noble families?" Gihren rolls his eyes. He has heard the rumors about this secret, supposedly all-powerful group that has controlled much of history from the shadows. He believes almost none of it.

"Do you know that Adolf Hitler was one of their members?" Garma asks.

"I've heard rumors, but it's never been verified conclusively." Gihren dismisses the legend for what it is.

"How about the material evidence showing that George W. Bush was also one of their members?" Garma offers.

"I have seen that classified information before," Gihren admits. "But it is also said that he was kept largely in the dark about the Order's real issues, whatever that fraternity cockypop is all about in the first place..."

"Trying to establish a so-called superior race, invading all of Europe, distributing the AIDs virus to 'inferiors' and trying to gain control of the Middle East. Do you know what people would do if they found out one group was behind all of that?" Garma asks.

"Even if it were true, how is that applicable now?" Gihren only cares about that, the now.

"I have been approached by several foreign diplomats about recent developments. It seems that the Order is abandoning Europe in an effort to make their base here, in _our_ country." Garma is getting hot under the collar. His impassioned speeches and hasty actions are coaxed by the flames in his heart.

"Who, if I may ask, are your sources for that information?" Gihren asks coldly.

"An insider in the French government and a high-ranking intelligence officer from Japan. They claim that an ally of the Order is involved with Titan Entertainment Corporation."

"Do they have proof connecting any person from Titan to this group?" Gihren asks, already knowing the answer. Garma would have ordered a special task force to capture such a suspect. His little brother was always overanxious to prove himself.

"No, not yet at least..." Garma frowns. "Which is exactly why I feel an investigation of our own is necessary."

"Have you spoken with the Minister of Intelligence, Char Aznable?" Gihren asks. He is still not sure why his younger brother is wasting his time on a matter that probably does not require anything deviating from standard protocol.

"Something tells me to take a different approach on this one." Garma shrugs airily. "I was hoping to get your advice on how to create the investigative team."

Gihren hesitates. If it was a direct order, if it was an official request, he had no choice. His duty bound him to aid his little, inferior brother. Was Garma giving him a chance to back out, or was this a direct order in disguise? It was a question of semantics. Gihren hated semantics...

"Yes," Gihren sighs. It's best to be safe rather than sorry. "Off the top of my head, I'd recommend captain Murrue Ramius of the Air Force and Li-"

"Oh, could I actually ask you to hold that thought for another time?" Garma suddenly asks, smiling brightly. "I've almost forgotten, I need to meet with the Ambassador from the International Red Cross, make sure we're not torturing people too much, you know. But get that ready for me as soon as possible, the investigative team that is. Thank you, Gihren."

Gihren bites his tongues. He is left to do the work again. It is politics as usual.

-end Part J of "In the Concrete Jungle"

Page III in Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: "Frontpage: Dermail resigns, Kushrenada to stand in as mayor?"

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

ID Notes:

Garma Zabi- The youngest of the Zabis that rule Zeon, the space-based nation in the original Mobile Suit Gundam. He is a young, charismatic, popular leader, but his youth also has its drawbacks. Here he is the president of the nation, just entering his second year of a five year term.

Gihren Zabi- One of Garma's older brothers, also from Mobile Suit Gundam. Gihren is as dry and boring as a piece of blank paper, but he's cunning and quite smart.

Murrue Ramius is a character in Gundam SEED, a female officer in the military. She'll appear later...

Note: I really didn't like writing this chapter... but it needed to get some attention, otherwise later on there'd be a "where the fuck did that come from?" moment. I also needed to introduce the President and Vice President at some point.

All that political banter wasn't my opinion, I'm just trying to set up the Order for future installments. Who knows? Some of the shit you see in the news today makes you wonder about the people running the world...


	26. IIIK: Frontpage: Dermail Resigns!

"Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation"

How these 4 s-words are intertwined with one another

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Gundam characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi, cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, sanity.

Part K of "In the Concrete Jungle", Page III in the s4 arc.

"Frontpage: Dermail Resigns; Kushrenada to take office?"

3rd Person Narration

A dense brush of cameras brave a slick, ever-whitening concrete ground. Microphones fight the murmur of the primitive fleshy creatures gathered like a horde all around them. A column of news vans clog the asphalt valley. Hawk-eyed snipers and helicopters linger in and above the massive metal and glass mountains that are like razorblades against the creamy flesh of the sky. The natives are restless.

The date is the 24th of February and it is snowing in the concrete jungle.

Out ambles the king of this place, so crammed with life and activity that it often offends the senses. His is a domain of the exotic and wild, a complex environment with more pitfalls and snakes than darkest Africa, full of territorial instincts and maintained by the never-ending cycle of hunter and prey.

The natives clamber like apes, primitively overworking their abused tools. The lion does not blink against the torrent of light flashes or the collective roar of the mutinous throng. You don't stay king if you scare that easily. With a hand, he silences all but the deaf twinkles of flashbulbs.

He is old, grey and white, appearing even more terrible in his austere, authoritative age than he was when he was faster and stronger in both mind and body. His steely eyes snarl at the swarming mass gaping at him in well-learned respect; licking their chops for a bloody offering instinctively. He clears his throat and even the wind stops.

"It has been my pleasure to serve as mayor of Metro City for these past twenty-some years." His voice commands respect. His words must be recorded with rapt ear. "When I think about all I was able to accomplish, all of the things I have done here, I have no regrets. I have been honored to govern this great city for as long as I have; and from the bottom of my heart I hoped to continue for longer."

The crowd murmurs. It is a crack in the pride. The wolves in the shadow edge closer, drooling. The wintry wind blows the king's elegant garb about, a regal fur coat, perhaps a trophy from one of his great conquests. But today it is he who must admit defeat.

"However, due to recent... personal matters..."

The natives cluck to each other in hushed voices. The fangs are dull. The old king, and how old he suddenly seems!, is at his last. He licks his lips nervously, his eyes dart around insecurely.

He draws his last. "I have decided to resign from my post."

The king is dead. The reign is over. Innumerable flashes of lightning immortalize the moment like taxidermists. All had wondered what this moment would be like, but never could they quite imagine the day it would come.

The deposed god, for he was like a god, breathes heavily into the microphone. The wind picks up suddenly, sweeping away the papers containing his final, carefully prepared speech. There is laughter. Some of the vultures descend from the wings upon the papers. For a minute all is chaos. Then, as if trying to act like some advanced species of creature, everyone seems to remember where they are and why they are there. The natives look at their leader expectantly, so accustomed to his guidance and leadership. He, in turn, stares back at them; but seemingly stuck in a reverie as the elderly so often descend into to hide from reality. The silence is painful, too much like death.

"Quite honestly..." They all wait to hear what he has to say. "...I'd rather be fishing."

He stares blankly at the stunned swarm of people. He turns to exit the stage he has starred on for far too long.

"Duke Dermail, what about the corruption charges?"

"Duke Dermail, is it true that Treize Kushrenada has volunteered to take over as mayor?"

"Duke Dermail, are you afraid of being imprisoned for your crimes?"

"Duke Dermail, will you take responsibility for the current state of Metro City?"

They throw their feces at him like so many monkeys.

-end "Frontpage: Dermail Resigns, Kushrenada to take office?" Part K

-end Page III "In the Concrete Jungle"

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: Page IV: "A Crow Left of the Murder"

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Notes: I might have overdone it with the metaphors. But if you've ever been to a big press event, you'd agree that the similarities are scary...

Dermail's 'last words' were actually spoken by a man called Jimmy Glass

"I'd rather be fishing." Last Words of Jimmy Glass. Executed in electric chair, June 12, 1987 Louisiana.


	27. Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, they are the property of Bandai, Sunrise or someone else, but not me. I use them for no-profit whatsoever, but for entertainment's gain.

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Want to thank ZaKai again for all her help. I was really stuck on this section for awhile until she gave me some of her brilliant ideas. I wouldn't have been able to be satisfied with it otherwise.

Page IV: "A Crow Left of the Murder"

It was the like a human circus in there. People flailing, sweating, stinking, drooling, fucking. It was a freak show. I couldn't stand it. The chaos made it almost impossible for me to find my target. The devil-eyed urchin with the braid only complicated matters further. – Heero

I just came to get my freak on. It was a Friday night for crying out loud! Some dude made a pass at me, said he wanted me to try some of his X and maybe see if our zodiac signs were right for each other or some bullshit like that. I wasn't really listening; I was focused on stealing his X. - Duo

I knew right away he was here to kill someone. I just had to make sure it wasn't my client... or Quatre... – Trowa

Losman was one of those kinds of guys. The limo, the VIP, the Chivas Regal, the super model sluts, the eggshells of premium Columbian coke. And he insisted I get my share. I was clocked out well before midnight. I don't even remember half the night. – Quatre

I had promised Meiran that I'd be back before 1AM. I had just wanted to get a sample of Chapman's stuff, just to see if his boys had been able to cook up anything good at their labs. Chapman told me he'd somehow managed to lose the drugs or they'd been stolen. Then they started shooting into the crowd. Obviously I was late getting home. – Wufei

Part A of Page IV in the s4 arc

"The Crow"

Neutral 3rd person narration.

"The Crow" was the name given to the popular bar/club/black market spot in downtown Gotham. It was part of the development effort that paved over the old Fair Grounds thirty or so years ago. Where the 'exciting new horizons of man's future' were once proudly displayed for the public many generations ago, pizzerias, overcrowded apartments, barber shops, bars and some already abandoned buildings now stood. But most importantly, surging up into the clouds were the mammoth skyscrapers that had been the main goal of the lobbyists. There were four: the UNLA Banking building, the Chicita/Dole building, Coca-Cola's 'Dermail Spire', named for the former mayor of Metro, and finally the Forward Group's headquarters, the tallest and finest of the four.

"The Crow" was not near the rest of the bars in the Fair Grounds District, as the Orange East-West subway stop named the area. All of the small, family owned businesses and the cramped apartment complexes stood on the northwest portion of the buried Fair Grounds. "The Crow" was the lone exception, situated amongst the other four impressive enterprises, directly under the wings of the Dermail Spire. From the street corner of Concord and 1st Ave you could look west over the harbor and see King's Bay glistening in the moonlight.

One can only imagine why someone would put a state-of-the-art club directly under the noses of some of the city's richest and most influential businessmen and politicians.

From the night its doors opened, "The Crow" was a focal point in Gotham nightlife. It attracted the crème de la crème, the celebrities, the CEOs, the top lawyers, the actors and sports stars, fashion designers, super models, the well-connected and the well-known. Everyone knew about "The Crow" practically overnight, though nobody could seem to find out who owned the place.

There had been a murder there on the first night the doors opened.

Well, not on the premises of the club, so the official police report and investigation went.

While the decapitated body of Wong Lee was found stuffed down into a duct of the building's ventilation and cooling system, the official verdict was that he'd been murdered outside, in an alleyway that did not belong to "The Crow", nor to the Dermail spire, nor to anyone. His genitals had also been mutilated, prior to his death. The murder weapon had been left in the alleyway, not by mistake, but in order to send a message. The head of Wong Lee had been cut off with a machete, product of the Home Depot. There were never any convictions, though suspects were held.

Soon after people started to whisper, "The mafia was involved."

They had no idea.

Wong Lee was associated with criminal organizations, though always shunted to the outskirts of the intimate circles, never expressing loyalty to the Chinese factions, but always to be ostracized from others because of his nationality. Wong Lee had been something else, something only a few white-collared heads had ever known of, and which they would never dare speak. They were the same people who were to be often found frequenting the buildings overlooking the spot where Wong's head had been found. They were upstanding members of society. As far as they had known, Wong Lee had been as well...

They also had no idea.

Most young people didn't even know about the murder. It had happened 'ages' ago, twenty-five whole years ago. They just came to the club because it was the place to be. Most of them never got anywhere near the real center of "The Crow". It was designed like that, with a LessVIP area just for them to stoke their egos in. You had to know someone or be with someone to get into the real Crow. The college kids and travelers paid the same cover fee that the real guests of honor did, $90.

They had no idea.

There was only one man who really knew. He knew why it was so important to corral all the young kids into a play land version of the hottest club in the city. He knew why it was so important that the CEOs and top socialites never find out the real truth about Wong Lee. The police... hahaha... he knew he didn't need to worry about them finding out...

He knew why Wong Lee had been killed.

Wong had been the only one left.

The others were dead.

He'd bought the machete from Lowe's, not the Home Depot. That was part of why he never worried about the police finding out.

Until today.

Someone, one of the original few who had been at Lucatelli's when it'd been decided, someone had not taken those events to the grave. Someone had let the secret slip.

That tongue had been silenced, more than two decades ago actually.

But none had known precisely to whom that tongue had wagged. Over a dozen unsuspecting, suspected peoples had been killed since, in the effort to squelch the secret forever.

Tonight, he knew, it would be finished. Everything hung in the balance for one night only.

He knew the one he'd sent would not fail in burying the secret with a fresh layer of blood and dirt. He knew, as he lay down to sleep, that he could rest easy.

He knew that in the morning he'd be the only one to know the truth once again.

He had no idea.

-end "The Crow", Part A of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation. How these four 's' words are closely intertwined.

Next part: "The (other) Marked Man"

ID Note:

Wong Lee is a character from Zeta Gundam, where he is a shady businessman who secretly funds the rebellion. Here he is a deceased criminal who was killed many years before the story began.

The identity of the 'man who knows' will not be revealed until later.

Note:

The title of this page comes from an album (and song) by Incubus. I must have listened to this album about a million times while writing this fic and hence it's gotten its own page. A 'murder' is the actual word used for a group / flock of crows. Hence


	28. IVB: The other Marked Man

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part B of Page IV

"The (other) Marked Man"

Neutral 3rd person narration

"JP, do they have a bottle opener anywhere in here?" Quatre Winner asked.

"Let me open that for you, sweety," a tall, attractive red-head offered. She was a beautiful whore.

James Parker Losman had a lot on his mind, and that required he get thoroughly retarded beyond belief in order to relax and enjoy himself. He had been stressed out the entire week, waking in a panicked sweat, biting his manicured fingernails, smoking even more cigarettes than usual, tossing and turning in his bed- his empty bed. Young Losman was not used to sleeping alone. He also disliked condoms, because it was that much more "lame" when he was fucking a chick with a rubber prison caging his dick. He preferred it raw.

"Allah's beard, this is some high-quality stuff!"

"Cheevas Regal!" a second girl gleefully mispronounced. "I've only seen it in advertisements!" She whispered to her friend, "That's over $100 a bottle!"

"Yo, JP," a brooding young businessman spoke as softly as could possibly heard with the loud bass shaking the ceiling as the dance floor beat with life. "The Z man's outside."

Losman had gotten Daniella Amarosso pregnant that way, high on coke, boozed up and with no condom. Losman was sure that she had fucked up on taking those pills on time, or something. The girl knew he only did it raw...

"This shit's from Argama, I'll have you know," the Z man insisted.

"You just say that shit to jack up the prices!" Quatre insisted.

"And your punk ass is still on my list! You owe me three Gs!" the Z man barked.

Quatre turned the bottle of champagne upside down. It had been a shitty week at work...

So what did the young, respectable Losman do? He asked his girlfriend (he only called her that so he could fuck her at his beck and call) to get an abortion. Naturally, he offered to foot the bill.

"1000, final offer," the Z man demanded.

"Make it 5000 and cut me a decent deal!" the brooding young businessman insisted, peeling out five crisp bills like they were Monopoly money. "JP, Quatre, this one's on me! You too, girls!"

"Take a shot with me Quatre?" One of the blondes, both fake, both pornstars, took Quatre by the arm and pulled him towards the bar, where a beautiful woman quickly set down a row of shots.

JP Losman was the only son of the Losman – Septum family. His mother was the daughter of a former general, Mynart Septum. Losman was currently working with his cousin at the Alliance Defense Industry branch in midtown Gotham. The company never would have existed without his uncle's influence, and, moreover, Gwinter was really the only one working at the company...

"Give me a call whenever you need to re-up." The Z man slipped out.

"Who wants to do some fucking Argaman blow?!" The normally brooding businessman was all grins now. All the whores and social climbers gaggled towards him, ravenous for the lift, ready to be laid on their backs as payment.

Daniella had said that the abortion probably wasn't a good idea. She had teetered and tip-toed around the problem for months in the hopes he'd marry her, often frustrating JP to no end. Why wouldn't the girl just go to the clinic?

"Aww, Quatre, you're so cute!" the blond pornstar cooed as she patted the short Winner heir on his back, her massive tits rubbing against his arm. He was coughing from the shots; they'd each taken two.

"Come take a line, JP!" Quatre yelled energetically. The alcohol was now racing through his blood stream, the first sense of joyful bliss beginning. To think he was once absolutely against alcohol...

"Gimme a minute." JP stayed aloof still, but managed to do a good job chugging his Chivas Regal on the rocks.

Daniella's father had came over one night. This was rare, because Daniella often said that her father was out of the country on business for months at a time.

JP finished his glass, setting it down and immediately asking the bartender for another. He glanced at the doorway, where the two bodyguards stood like sentinels. He frowned at the one on the right, almost absolutely covered in shadow. That bodyguard was very lanky and had his hair styled in a way that made JP pretty sure an elephant could approach from his right. A uni-bang, was it?

Mr. Amarosso had not been pleasant at all... He had asked JP to keep the baby, said it wouldn't be the right thing to do. Amarosso had called it "a sin in the eyes of God". Whatever...

The bodyguards gave JP some peace of mind, though nothing like the scotch whiskey beginning to inebriate him did. His cousin's company, he'd learned, was not safe to rely on. The mob had cells there. One of his guards from Alliance might turn around and shoot him in the face.

"Woo!! Woo!!!" Quatre hollered, just having taken a long line of coke from in between the breasts of the redhead. She laughed playfully, stupidly, high as a kite herself.

The security needed to come from an outsider. And, like everything else, Losman relied on his drug connection to find the bodyguards for him.

But Mr. Amarosso had not let him blow it off that easily. He got quite animated and pushy with JP once he'd noticed that the young, wealthy aristocrat was blowing him off. He'd told JP he'd marry his daughter, that they'd have the baby...

"Get over here, man!" Quatre had made his way over to JP. Taking him by the arm, the fucked-up blond led him over to the coke orgy. "You paid for the VIP, enjoy it!"

JP had always felt that Quatre was a little bit of a fag, so feminine and all. He took his arm away from the rich blond youth. JP Losman only fucked girls, raw.

JP was not the kind of person to bend to any geezer's wacky old whims. Despite her protests, Daniella had gotten the abortion. She'd disappeared several days later, and his phone calls were blocked at the Amarosso residence.

One of the girls had her pants around her ankles. J.P. smacked the well-tanned cheeks, drawing a cheer from the onlookers. The brooding businessman cracked a new eggshell of coke and laid the whole thing out on the bitch's ass, going right up her back. J.P. let all of the breath leave his chest, leaning over the slut, toying her twat with his free hand. He closed one nostril and began to snort. Immediately, his troubles began to fade.

Mr. Amarosso had left a message on J.P.'s cell phone one night. It basically alluded to the fact that the young Losman boy would find himself 'with the fishes', sooner rather than later. J.P. considered himself too young to die.

You may have noticed that there is no physical description here of James Parker Losman. The hollow tipped-bullet penetrated through the back of his skull and emerged out the front, blowing off most of his head and all of his face. We know his hair was brown and put him around 5'9" height wise. On the night of the murder he wore a bright white suit and a red dress shirt. His dental records were used to identify him.

-end "The (other) Marked Man"

Part B of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation. How these four 's' words are intertwined.

Next: "Beautiful Distraction"

ID Notes:

James Parker Losman is the name of a pro football quarterback. He was the first string starter for the Buffalo Bills last year, but was a disappointment and replaced mid-way through the season. His rumored off-field personality is the basis of this character, a rich businessman who hangs out with Quatre on occasion.

The name 'Septum' should be familiar to you Gundam Wing fans. He was an Alliance general (nasly voiced in American dub) who was unwittingly used by Treize in his coup d'etat. Later Septum's son and father appeared as leaders of a space colony resisting OZ's take over.

The Amarosso characters are all original.

The Z man is a nickname, that character will be ID'd shortly.

Note:

Argama is a small foreign city that I completely made up to compare with other places like 'Bogota'.

Part B Details

This part presents a minor character, a friend of Quatre's named JP Losman, who is a 'marked man. It is split between the events going on in the club currently, and introspective flashbacks that setup the situation that Losman is in.

This is the first time we see what 'a night out' for Quatre might look like. It's drunken debauchery all around with people who only care about money and feeling good.

The breakdown of Losman's history is, for those who didn't follow:

Born to a rich military family – Went into business with his cousin, Gwinter Septum – Meets, dates, and impregnates Daniella Amarosso, daughter of a rumored Italian mafia boss – Pressures Daniella into having an abortion, ignoring the demands of her father – Daniella disappears and Losman's life is threatened – Losman hires bodyguards referred to him by his drug connection 'the Z man' – Killed in 'The Crow' nightclub.


	29. IVC: Beautiful Distraction

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part C of Page IV

"Beautiful Distraction"

3rd person narration

The layout for the Crow was one of the more difficult ones Heero Yuy had ever needed to memorize. He'd infiltrated more secure and technical ones, but usually with some kind of reference. He had prepared several days in advance for this one, not because the underground complex's schematics were that hard to commit to memory, but because the amount he was getting paid for this mission was top-notch, and the employer one of his favorites. Heero had no loyalty to the mysterious man who called his beeper maybe twice a year. In fact, Heero had no idea who this man was.

It didn't bother Heero that he might never meet the shadowy figure, or hear his real voice. All he cared about was the fact that a call from this employer always meant a strenuous challenge ahead. There was no mission too difficult for Heero Yuy, despite his best efforts to find one.

Like all other missions from this employer, this was a solo operation, fitting Heero's preferences. Like the other missions, the specific instructions could be found in a briefcase left inside a waiting cab at the Metropolis Railroad Station, fifteen meters from the corner of Ash and Mallott. Like always, there was a video recording listing the specific objectives, photos of the target, whether it was an item or a person, a small advance for purchasing suggested equipment, and details on the layout of the mission's staging area, security network and escape routes. Heero never bothered with the escape routes.

The computer altered voice's information was always astonishingly accurate, and this sometimes made Heero depressed, because it meant that the mission would surely be successful. If it weren't for the fact that he undertook all these missions on his own, they would have probably been downright boring. Most of the missions were meant for elite squads composed of four or more.

But tonight, to Heero's shock-turned-pleasure, the information was not 100 accurate, as Heero found out when he tried what was supposed to be a locked fire door and found it was now a woman's bathroom. That certainly explained the dirty looks he'd received while shouldering his way past dozens of painted-up partiers whose almost visible panties were in a twist. They'd been waiting on line to go to the bathroom, Heero concluded.

The blueprints weren't accurate, and Heero hadn't scoped out the grounds on his own, foolishly believing that his normally perfect employer wouldn't slip up. The primary planned approach to the target was impossible because the South-A4 vent shaft was watched by dozens of young women doing cocaine and occasionally vomiting. The secondary and tertiary approaches were all going to be hard, and not being 100 confident in his knowledge of the layout entailed a huge risk for the manic hitman.

Tonight was different than the usual. The sheer size and frenzied nature of the human throng dampening the neon-sparkling air with sweat made it difficult to navigate. Heero's relatively short stature made keeping a lookout on security difficult. The music was way too fucking loud, and that made the blood boil all the more.

And then Heero ran into Duo Maxwell, who was wearing a scandalous outfit, and immediately made matters worse by latching onto the short-haired youth's side. Duo was wearing skintight leather to just above where Heero was sure his... oh wow... Heero got an erection just thinking about what the beautiful amethyst-eyed demon kept hidden in those pants. The creamy white flesh of Duo's midriff, without an ounce of fat, just as Heero had imagined it, was exposed. What barely passed as a sleeveless shirt only started well above the navel and clung tightly to his frame. Duo also wore leather gloves up past his wrist, a loose, open vest, and a priest's collar, the latter of which was the only non-black item on his delicious person.

Duo immediately seemed to know what Heero was all about, and even volunteered his 'expert' services in whatever Heero had to do. The stoic hitman tried to brush him off; he always flew solo.

That wouldn't be the case tonight.

-----

"It's you!"

"Hn."

Heero tried to look interested in the drink he'd just ordered. He'd had to bark four times that he didn't want any alcohol in his Spirit & Coke, and the soda was watered down... He had to get into the kitchen, past the bartenders and orange-shirts(1).

Duo made short work of saddling up into a vacant chair on Heero's right, putting down his $10 and raising his hand for a Jägerbomb. With his long hair he'd look natural making nice with the sullen and sour half Japanese sexbomb who was trying to give him the cold shoulder. Duo enjoyed when they played hard to get.

There were four females and two smiling Abercrombie wannabes bartending in the immediate vicinity, Heero assessed. The problem was that the only path where his entry would not fall to the vision of the always-watching eye (cameras) was patrolled tightly by three, and sometimes four, oranges. He needed to invent a diversion, and a flawless one. There was little room for error this early on.

Duo caught on, saying, "Why are you scheming how to get back into the restricted area?" He hit the nail on the head.

"What?" The blaring music and heaping human chatter interfered.

"Are you here to kill someone?" Even quieter, but this time Duo's words were heard.

"No," Heero lied.

"Oh yes you are!" Duo caught him, smiling.

Heero, leaning into Duo's ear, snarled, "I wouldn't hesitate to kill you too."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" The violet-eyed imp played coyly. He turned away, thanked the bartender, grabbed his drink and took a strong sip before turning back and facing the assassin, smiling. Duo continued, "It could be fun! Trust me, it's that much better than doing it all alone with just your right hand and a bottle up your– Hey!"

Heero had made a motion to get up, but Duo put a gloved hand on his arm quickly.

"Just hear me out for a second, and then you can go on and do whatever crazy psycho shit you need to. It won't take more than a minute." As the hesitant hunk settled back down into his seat, looking somewhat uncomfortable, Duo offered, "I won't waste your time."

"Make it quick then," Heero spat. Distractions were hazardous...

"You probably wanna get down to the VIP area on the 2nd level, am I right?" Duo asked.

Heero returned a face that said he was the one asking the questions. But Duo could still read his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah I'm right." Duo nodded, smiling a little. "Otherwise you wouldn't be looking all helpless and pouty over your drink. Does that even have alcohol in it-" Duo had tried to grab Heero's drink, but the hitman had pulled away quickly.

"Do you know a way or not?" Heero snapped, ready to leave.

Duo smiled beautifully. "Of course I do, honey." He leaned forward, dropping his voice so Heero had to close the gap as well. "But it's going to cost you..." His violet eyes glittered like a cat's.

"Whatever you want," Heero replied quickly, the potential secondary interpretation of his bargain with the drop-dead delicious devil not escaping his thoughts. In fact, was it getting hotter in the club?

Duo decided to crank up the heat. "In fact, I think I'm gonna need a down-payment."

"Huh?" And just as Heero opened his mouth, Duo struck like a snake, sitting forward and slithering his tongue into the captivating killer's kisser. Heero's mind froze, but his tongue fought with Duo's like it was the beam-sabre duel in Antarctica.

Heero let his eyes close, feeling for the enemy within. The glitzy lights disappeared; the thousands of people around them vanished. His own tongue clashed briefly with another similar weapon. A savory zephyr scent was sucked in with the air, Duo's. The music thumped loudly, the bass setting the pace, beating wildly. For the moment, Heero didn't want to kill anyone or undertake any suicidal missions. This was excitement enough. It was a hard, fierce kiss.

Duo pulled away first, leaving only the blend of oranges and licorice on Heero's lips, Jägermeister.

"Follow me." The chase was on.

-end "Beautiful Distraction" Part C of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation. How these four 's' words are intertwined.

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Next: "Shield Me, Spear You"

Notes:

[1- Many security guard companies usually have uniforms in bright colored shirts in order to stand out in crowds and so they can spot each other. In this case the guards are wearing bright orange shirts, hence orange-shirts or Oranges.

ID Notes: The employer's name is obviously not to be revealed for some time.


	30. IVD: Shield Me, Spear You

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part D of Page IV

"Shield Me, Spear You"

3rd Person Narration

They crossed the dance floor directly over JP Losman's VIP room. Trowa noticed them immediately. In his dark little corner of the room he had taken to staring up at the people above them. The ceiling of the VIP room on the second subterranean level was a one-way mirror that could support the crushing weight of the thousands of people which milled about unawares of being visible. If the scene above Trowa would strike a person as decedent and disgusting, then the one directly before his eyes was worse. Losman and his friends were snorting and drinking thousands of dollars away at an hourly pace. The girls were offering themselves out like candy. What made it hard to watch for Trowa was that Quatre was there.

Trowa had a pretty good memory for some things, despite the amounts of weed he smoked. Names were not one of those things he tended to remember. Truthfully, he was woefully inept with recalling the names of people he'd even just met.

But the pair above was somehow different, perhaps because of the circumstances he'd met them under. The long-haired tramp was Duo Maxwell, the dangerous man in the suit was Heero Yuy. Trowa felt that he would never forget these names, and this struck him as stranger than the phenomenon of his remembering them in the first place.

Heero was the one that worried him. He had asked Circus and a few of his connections in the underworld about the Japanese assassin, and the stories they'd heard and relayed to him made even Trowa uncomfortable. There was no doubt; that man was here to kill someone.

So, now, Trowa was wrestling with himself. He was here to protect James Parker Losman. But the only person here he really gave two shits about was Quatre Winner.

Trowa was tired and confused, lightly fingering the butt of his gun through the thin folds of his jacket absentmindedly. Trowa had no idea why Losman needed bodyguards, but he was even more clueless as to how Quatre was involved with such a person. He watched the rich blonde stagger back and forth, spilling his bottle of alcohol all over the floor.

After he'd finished parking the car and gotten past the assholes in security, Trowa had been shocked to find that Quatre was there, as he was now, stinking wasted. Quatre still hadn't noticed that Trowa was there in the shadows next to the door.

Here was a person who Trowa honestly felt was a genuinely kind hearted person. Quatre may not have shown any great deal of kindness or gentleness, or even common respect during the course of the 24/7 store robbery, but Trowa held no doubt that he possessed a remarkable amount of both virtues. In truth, Trowa was not able to come to a conclusion as to what exactly his feelings were toward Quatre, perhaps because he was unconsciously afraid of the answer he might find.

Quatre took a highly piled line of cocaine through a rolled up dollar bill and stood ramrod straight, ashen faced and sweating slightly. He promptly fell backwards onto a vacant portion of the long, black leather couch behind him. If the couch had not been there, Trowa was sure the blonde would have landed smack on the floor. Trowa looked up and could not see Heero Yuy or Duo Maxwell among the throng anymore. He quickly focused his attention back on Quatre, who was being fanned and offered a drink by a beautiful slut with red hair.

Trowa felt compelled to do whatever he could to make sure Quatre would be safe.

But doing that wouldn't get him money for the rent.

He understood why he wanted, _needed,_ the money, but Trowa was unable to unearth the secret source of his rising impulse to rush to Quatre's side, to check to see if he was okay, to take him away from this exorbitant, dangerous place. Such things are usually buried at depths too deep and hardened for most men to breach with even willful soul searching.

Trowa felt compelled, despite how much tonight was showing the length of distance between himself and the blond. He was beginning to understand that he didn't know this person at all, that the isolated incident that they'd shared together might not, probably did not, mean anything. Quatre enjoyed all the cushy, up-scale things that only the rich could afford. Trowa could never give him that, didn't want those things anyway. And... Trowa frowned bitterly, enviously, Quatre seemed to be very popular with all the beautiful women that were constantly surrounding him and showering him with affection. Quatre's friends seemed to be smart, successful go-getters. How else would they have this much money? he reasoned.

And Trowa?

In his own eyes, he was uneducated, a failure, timid, and-

"Yo," the female bartender yelled over in his direction. "Yo! Get over here!" She too was one of the bodyguards hired by Losman. Her name was 'Denim'.

Trowa took a nervous glance over at Quatre, who was still being fawned over by the women, seemingly glued to the couch now. Checking with the guard on the other side of the door to make sure leaving his post was acceptable, he strode over behind the bar.

"Takeover bartending will ya?" Denim yelled in his ear. "I gotta go take a piss."

Trowa started explaining that he had no idea how to bartend or how to make any kind of drink besides Cool Aid. The bartender/bodyguard countered by saying that he was too small to watch the door alone, and that Slender, the hulking black guard, had to stay by the door.

"Trowa?"

Trowa froze. Quatre was staring at him from across the room, making the others stare as well.

"Trowaah! Isz you!" Quatre nearly tripped onto his face crossing the distance to the bar. There was no way to hide now.

"Perfect," Denim whispered, patting Trowa forcefully on the back. "You can entertain the rich pricks while I go take a leak." And she walked away.

"Whatchyoudoinear?" Quatre's words came out all mixed together. "Hey, hey! Doalinewidmehuh?" Quatre took out an eggshell of blow, holding it out proudly. It was all Trowa could do to make sense out of the inebriated blond.

Trowa didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He was always horrible with picking the right thing to say when it really mattered. He looked at the cocaine and frowned.

"Ey Trowaah!" Quatre demanded his attention, raising his voice to a shout.

Trowa looked away from the cherub blond. The women were pointing at the two of them and whispering. He didn't like that kind of attention, and suddenly wanted Quatre far away from him.

"You shouldn't talk to me," Trowa said finally. "Just act like you don't know me."

There was no way a well-to-do person like Quatre Winner would ever have anything to do with a bum like himself, Trowa had told himself many times. Getting his hopes up would only make the fall harder. It probably would have been better if they'd never even met...

"Buhwhyy?" Quatre began to whine, backing away slightly from the bar. Trowa chalked up the blond's moodiness to the drugs and booze. He couldn't-

But, a pained look took over the shorter youth's face, and it hurt Trowa to look him in the eyes. Quatre pouted like a child who didn't fully understand. And in turn, Trowa didn't know how to explain. He told himself that it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't the one upsetting Quatre. Still, it wasn't easy to ignore... He did want to say something, but-

"Oi! New bartender, eh? Fine by me, that chick was a bit of a bitch, ya know what I'm saying?." The brooding young businessman had approached the bar during their silence. "You two know each other?" The businessman was quite good at reading others.

"No," Trowa answered coldly. Quatre opened his mouth, but just looked at the floor and closed it without a word. "He must have thought I was someone else." Trowa found himself lying before he'd even made up his mind on what to say.

"Whip me up two Tequila Sunrises then," the businessman demanded.

Trowa turned around to face the bar, three dozen kinds of liquors and mixers staring him in the face. He had no idea what was in a Tequila Sunrise, except for maybe tequila. He turned back to the bar. Quatre was still standing there, looking miserably dejected. The brooding businessman tapped his fingers impatiently. The rich hate waiting.

Trowa grabbed a bottle of Patron tequila, two glasses, some ice and a thing of orange citrus juice. He figured the citrus was as close to a sunrise as he would get; at least it had the right color. He mixed the drinks so that the man facing the bar couldn't see what he was putting in the glasses. He totally guessed the proportions, going a little heavy on the tequila.

"You extracting the grenadine back there or something?" the businessman asked, agitated.

Trowa didn't even know what grenadine was. He rushed back to the bar, handing the drinks to the customer and adding, "I made them a little stronger than normal."

The businessman smiled. "Good thinking man. Get the broads wasted faster. Good shit."

The brooding businessman walked away. Quatre was still standing there. Softly, he murmured, "So I guess you're just going to pretend you have nothing to do with me? Fine." Sadness made the words come out sober.

"We don't have anything to do with each other," again, Trowa said the words without even thinking. How was this rich kid sulking about what a cab driver thought of him? "Our paths just happened to cross again, that's all. You should go back over, have fun with your friends."

The coldness of his words were part of a shield he only now realized had been raised on instinct. He pretended to clean one of the shot glasses on the bar, as if he really were a bartender and that this little piece of compressed glass was what he was supposed to be focusing on now. The glass, not the beautiful youth in front of him who he wanted to... He set the glass down and picked up another dirty one.

"So, so you really don' like me?" Quatre asked. Trowa froze, almost dropping the glass in his hand.

Quatre looked at Trowa imploringly through bleary aquamarine eyes. When they say alcohol is a depressant, they're damn right. Trowa didn't know what to say; and so Quatre spoke first, saying the words that came all too naturally to him, words that he'd deeply feared would reflect sad reality, "Of course. Of course you don't. Who could like a shitty-"

And Quatre stuffed the cocaine back into his pocket, grabbed a bottle of champagne and made for the exit in a huff. Instinctively, Trowa started to follow him, already cursing himself for being such an insensitive bastard. He slammed the shot glass down on the bar and it shattered as easily as if it had been fragile hope.

"Where are you going?" The huge, black bodyguard, Slender, stopped him at the door. Quatre slammed it behind him.

"I have to take a leak," Trowa lied.

"You gotta wait until Denim comes back," Slender insisted. "At least two with the client at all times."

"Hey! Hey you! You call this a Tequila Sunrise?" The shouts from the businessman, the pounding music overhead, Slender's restraining arm and the image of tears streaming down Quatre's face made Trowa forget who he was and where he was.

And then he was not were he had been.

And, similarly but in a strange way completely differently, he was not quite the same as he had been a minute before.

-end "Shield Me, Spear You" Part D of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation. How these four 's' words are intertwined.

Next: "Drug Dealers are Unreliable"

ID Notes:

Denim and Slender are two very minor characters from the original Mobile Suit Gundam. Obviously I've changed Denim's sex to female here...

Notes:

Trowa remembers Heero and Duo's names from their wallets.

Tequila Sunrise: 3 parts Tequila, 6 parts orange juice, 1 part grenadine syrup, preferably in a high glass with ice, added in that order, sometimes garnished and not to be stirred or shaken.


	31. IVE: Drug Dealers Aren't Reliable

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

whenshootingstarsfalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part E of Page IV in the s4 arc

"Drug Dealers aren't reliable"

3rd person narration

Chang Wufei did not like techno music. It wasn't only the mental association between the genre and his 2C-I trip, where he had followed blaring techno music into a hellish ordeal that had seen him held at gunpoint, robbed, put in debt to a thief, forced at gunpoint down into a basement, chased by the police, and interrogated for the next full day.

Chang Wufei didn't like techno music because it was too loud and unrefined for his tastes. He was a snob for the classics; Beethoven's compositions for the piano, Bach, Handel. He also enjoyed smooth jazz, but equally loathed rap and hip-hop. The most recent kind of music that he would listen to was Pink Floyd and some selections from Radiohead. Those two artists provided some funky auditory input for a person tripping their face off on any kind of drug.

But Metro City's drug dealers did not hang out in the "Classical" section of the music store. Few were at the blues and jazz clubs. Tragically, most of the hippies in the psychedelic scene couldn't tell a good hit of acid from their finger nail. The best and most reliable, if that word could ever be used to describe a dealer, were all to be found at the upscale club scenes. Consequently, Wufei had to subject himself to the cacophonous racket of modern dance garbage to meet the best contacts, especially on a weekend night.

So, to add to the frustration of his long first week of labs with Professor Tsubarov, who had watched Wufei like a hawk and stymied any chance for swiping the precious chemicals of his choice, Meiran's constant bashing, his parents calling from China, and another meeting with Sergeant Noin of the 109th Police Precinct, Wufei figured some crappy techno music was the least of the hazards he could subject himself to.

After a good half hour of searching, he finally ran into Chapman. "Gentle" Chapman, gentle only in outward appearance, was a Briton who had made a fortune selling drugs. His network extended to Europe and New York and back, and he boasted one of the finest illegal laboratories in Metro City. Chapman's #1 product was Ecstasy.

Immediately upon finding him, Wufei began to regret his decision on venturing to "The Crow" at all.

"What do you mean you're all out?" Wufei had to yell over the bass line.

"I have nothing! Nothing! Robbery!" Chapman barked in response.

"You promised you'd save me at least a little bit that I could do an analysis on," Wufei reminded the man.

"Didn't you hear me? I was robbed, you dumb Chinaman" Chapman turned red. "Someone took me for a fool! Oh, I'll catch that scoundrel, just they wait. It was probably that long-haired wretch..." He began to murmur into his glass of Guinness.

"Do you know where else I can score some high quality?" Wufei persisted. He wasn't about to return home to Meiran's righteous reprimands empty handed.

"Inept zipperheads want you to do it all for them..." Chapman grumbled. Wufei bit his tongue to stop from lashing out. Chapman took a long pull on his glass and continued, "There's always someone with good product around the Crow, especially on a Friday night. Try looking for 'the Z man', he's a good for nothing French shit with blue hair and eyes."

"Do you know where I should look for him?" Wufei asked.

"How should I know?" Chapman spat. "I told you all I know. Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to enjoy my scotch."

-end "Drug Dealers aren't reliable" Part E of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin and Salvation. How these four 's' words are intertwined.

Next: "Xctasy"

ID Notes:

Gentle Chapman is a minor character in G Gundam. He appears as a chivalrous, older man, but it quickly becomes revealed that he is addicted to performance enhancing drugs so as to maintain his prowess as a Gundam pilot.

Notes: Wufei always seems to get the short stick of my chapters... I'll have to do something about that...


	32. IVF: Xctasy

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part F of Page IV

"Xctasy"

Heero and Duo had spent just under an hour scoping out various ways to access the second, underground level of The Crow. Unless you were rich, famous, or with part of an entourage of someone who was, it wasn't going to be easy. For the most part, the two didn't speak to each other, only when it was required to point out the location of orange-clad security guards or doorways. It would have been hard to hear over the general din of the music and the people.

It was on their fourth pass of the far southern wall that Heero really started to feel different. The alteration had started gradually, growing slowly at first. In the early going it was steadily more noticeable, but mostly benign, heightened awareness, unusual sensitivity, increased energy. The strangest thing was what can only be described as awareness. It was an awareness only directed towards the outside world, towards others. Heero began to notice things, things he would normally never pay any attention to.

Heero noticed that Duo swung his hips as he walked, sauntering almost; a decidedly provocative gyration that would have been easily missed if it weren't for Duo's skin tight pants and thin frame. Heero noticed how pleasantly soft his undershirt felt against his skin, like freshly dried sheets to a baby's touch. He noticed the looks in other peoples' eyes. He could almost feel their feelings, as if they were sitting on a shelf in a display case.

That woman was horny. That man was lonely. That orange was tired. Duo was...

Duo stopped, leaning against a table for two, facing the far southern wall on the very opposite end of the club from the entrance. He'd chosen a tall table bolted into the floor where someone had spewed up a vast amount of vomit. The smell and the mess was keeping people away.

Heero leaned against the table too. Duo immediately said, "I'll be right back; stay here."

And Heero did, largely because this inconspicuous spot gave him a good vantage point to watch the security door against the far wall. It was guarded by two oranges. One orange was short, fat, and old. From time to time he would open the door with a keycard attached to his pants. It didn't escape Heero's observation that Duo hadn't just arbitrarily chosen this table, as another nearby was vacant, and free of vomit, but would have offered a viewpoint largely blocked by one of the structure's pillars.

Heero was cold, despite the ridiculous nightclub heat he'd been sweating from before. In fact, he was still sweating. Maybe it was because this area had less people because of the puke?

At the table next to him a couple was flirting. The girl had a lovestruck, glassy-eyed look. The guy murmuring in her ear had his hand up her skirt, doing God knew what to God knows whatever women had down there. Heero certainly had no idea.

He watched them and the security door for a few minutes, growing impatient at Duo's absence. From time to time he would rub the front of his suit. It felt very very good to touch. It was _so_ smooth.

"I'm back." Duo finally reappeared, smelling strongly like liquor and carrying two enormous glasses filled with a clear fluid. "Here, drink up." He offered one to Heero, who hesitated.

"What is that?" Heero eyed the glass dubiously. Duo stank like Bacchus, but his amethyst eyes were still keen and sharp, seemingly unaffected by it. It was at this very moment, looking into Duo's large pools of off-blue surrounding the iris, that Heero took more than cursory notice of his companion's eye color, and how devilishly beautiful they were.

After what felt like forever, Duo answered, "It's just water." He took a big gulp, placing Heero's glass on the table in front of him.

"Just water?"

"Just water," Duo said again, taking another big gulp. He certainly was drinking it like it was water.

Heero picked up his glass. It was like the coldest winter's snow in his hand. He put the glass to his sweating forehead. The pleasant chill was so strong that it made him shiver all down his spine, closing his eyes in pleasure. Once he realized how silly he probably looked, Heero immediately removed the glass from his forehead, opening his eyes. Duo was smiling at him like a fox does the hen.

Heero took a sip. It really was water. He took another gulp, another. He was very parched. Duo was positively beaming from behind his quickly emptying glass.

That made Heero ask, "Why water?"

"It's important to stay hydrated..." Duo answered seriously.

Heero took another thirsty gulp.

"...when you're rolling on E," Duo added.

Heero put down his glass. "Huh?" He must not have heard that correctly.

"E. Exctasy. Candy. X. You're tripping on it right now. I cracked two geltabs of it in my mouth right before I kissed you," Duo calmly informed.

The mental process involved in Heero digesting and accepting this new information as reality was a painful one, but mercifully fast. In a lot of ways, everything that had been growing stranger and strangerer now had a logical root and cause. And that cause was a devil-eyed youth named Duo Maxwell that Heero suddenly wanted to choke the life out of.

And Heero noticed that the devilish mischief in Duo's eyes was tinged with an unspoken dare for him to do just that. He felt something stir deep down in his sex at the thought. But it was squashed by his remaining reason. There was the mission.

"Omae o korosu." Heero was so preoccupied with all these mental faculties that he did not even bother to translate.

"I don't know what that means." Duo shrugged, finishing his glass. "But you should just relax and enjoy it. I'm fucking flying here." Here, Duo ran a hand over his bare, flawlessly flat stomach, eyes blinking rapidly and letting out a breath. "You'll thank me later."

"I'm going to kill you later," Heero spat as he resumed drinking his water.

"Hey, don't forget I'm helping you out here," Duo reminded, infuriating Heero even more.

"Drugging me is helping?" But Heero was sort of happy, in a strange way matching the situation itself. In fact, he was enjoying this more than any mission he'd had in a very long time. There were so many challenges and unexpected obstacles. It was riveting and exciting. Or maybe that was just the X and Duo Maxwell...

"Plus, think of how _hot_ the sex will be," Duo said, causing Heero to have trouble swallowing. "That's what I've decided I want in return for helping you out."

"I have to report in after the mission," Heero said automatically. He immediately regretted it.

There was an awkward silence between the two. Duo looked down at the table, hair covering his face. Regardless, Heero couldn't ignore the impression that Duo was angry, or perhaps that was the wrong word... but it was surely a negative emotion emanating from the long-haired youth at him. The music blared and people danced, laughing. The couple next to them left, arms interlocked.

Then Duo looked up, accused, "So that's why you never answer my calls. It's always 'the mission' to you, that's all you care about."

And Heero saw it. It was a kind of pain that he got no pleasure from giving. It was probably the drug that let him see it, as clear and evident as if Duo's eyes were clear, sad pains of glass. Duo had feelings for him. Duo-

Heero's watch beeped. He only had an hour left to complete the mission. Shit.

"It's because you're a distraction," Heero scowled, burying the emotion like a skeleton.

"A beautiful distraction." Duo forced a smile. He always had to laugh, always try to never be brought down.

Heero didn't say anything. Instead he finished his glass of water. It had been refreshing.

"Are you really going to just leave after this is over?" Duo asked seriously.

"Yes."

"No nonsense, no fun. Always business, always masturbation." Duo's joke came out sounding forced, which it was

"I do masturbate regularly, to do my job correctly," Heero took him seriously.

"Do you think of me?" Duo asked, jokingly, seriously, mischievously, hopefully. He smirked.

Heero, caught off guard, didn't answer. Duo's smirk widened. He went back to looking at the security door. The squat, fat orange was the only one there.

"Alright, if you want to get this done, this is how it's going to work," Duo suddenly started, sounding serious. "That one fatass in the orange, go over near him, not too close, act natural. Just stand there and wait, you'll know."

And Heero did just that. He got up and walked over, hands in his pockets, enjoying the texture of his handkerchief. The soft linen took his mind off of Duo Maxwell and his big, sad amethyst eyes. He leaned against the wall a few feet from the guard and pretended to survey the crowd.

Duo walked over to the squat security orange, saying loud enough for Heero to hear, "I'll suck your dick if you let me into VIP." Duo got very close to the security guard, hands making a fondling grab at the large man's pelvic region.

"Get outta here, ya' queer fuck!" The guard pushed him away.

Duo walked over to Heero, grabbing the other's hand, a delightful warmth.

"Let's dance." Duo pulled Heero out onto the dance floor. Duo immediately began moving to the music, arms in the air, hair whipping around like a cobra. Heero simply stood and watched him, unmoving. "Don't worry, it's relevant to your precious mission," Duo said, with more than a small note of scorn. "Just dance."

Heero tried. It was actually a great application of all the energy swelling up inside of him. As you can imagine though, Heero was not a very good dancer. It was like watching Steve Urkel trying to be smooth with women. Duo bit his tongue to keep from laughing, and, seeing how hopeless the hunky half-Japanese youth was, decided to help and take the lead.

"Here." Duo put his hands on Heero's shoulders, sliding down to his wrists.

It felt good to have Duo's hands on him. They quickly pulled Heero closer, subjecting his calloused fingers to the smooth bliss of Duo's tight leather pants.

"Hold my waist... there. Now just move with the music." Duo kept his hands in the air, swaying frantically to the lyrics. "Relax, don't worry about screwing up or getting everything right. Just have fun," Duo advised.

Heero was trying. The pulsing beat of the techno. The care-free, energetic environment. The gorgeous boy in front of him, looking at him with those devilish eyes. Heero had to admit, grudgingly, that it was all pretty enjoyable. The tension of the time restriction on the mission left his mind completely. He even smiled a little.

Then the beat changed suddenly and Duo shifted, turning around so that his back was to Heero. Heero stopped in surprise, and his hands briefly lost their grip on Duo's waist. Heero tried to grab back on, but caught Duo's bare midriff instead. The hot sinewy flesh was bliss in Heero's hands. Something in him took over, primitive and wanton. His hands began to rove recklessly over Duo's bare chest, Duo's perfectly flat stomach, Duo's firm ribcage, Duo's rockhard nipples.

Duo gasped and arched back into Heero. If Heero thought Duo felt good, then he had no idea how good his touching felt to Duo. The horny youth reached his hands backwards, one gripping Heero's back, the other clenching the firm cheeks of Heero's ass. Duo ground his rear into Heero's rock hard sex, grinding to the beat of the song.

Now _that_, Heero Yuy concluded, as his hips began to move in time with Duo's and the friction began to work its inevitable magic on his member, was ecstasy. Duo immediately felt the passionately full heat in Heero's pants, and the hand that had clenched Heero's ass shifted to clutch the throbbing (and long and wide, as Duo was very thrilled to find) hardness through Heero's pants.

Heero literally saw sparks and almost jizzed himself. Nobody (except for Duo, that one time in the convenient store) had ever touched him there. That was going to have to change.

Duo bent down, all the way parallel to the floor, and began to buck his backside up and down against Heero's most sensitive area, riding him over the goddamn fabric of his suit pants. Heero swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

By doing so, he missed Duo retrieving a matchbook from his pocket, pulling one out, then flicking it, sending it flying out of his hand just as it sparked on the coarse red phosphorous.

So you can imagine Heero's surprise when he opened his eyes–Duo had suddenly stopped dancing–to see that the floor a few yards in front of him was on fire. That was why Duo had stunk of alcohol a minute before.

People started screaming. Security came running. Duo turned around to Heero. "Let's go."

He pulled him towards the now unguarded security door. Duo pulled out the keycard he'd stolen from the security guard's back pocket, swiped it, and then the two were descending a staircase down into the bowels of The Crow.

Heero had to adjust his pants to accommodate the lingering boner Duo had left him with. If Heero had known what a cocktease was, he would have surely cursed Duo for being the best there ever was. The Ecstasy kept the boner going for another good twenty minutes.

-end "Extasy", Part F of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation: How these 4 's' words are intertwined

Next: "Target Acquired"

Let's hear it for 1x2! (Oh yes, there is much more of it to come!)

Note: I am trying to portray the effects of MDMA as accurately as possible, despite never having taken it myself. Numerous symptoms of the drug will continue to appear in both the characters (and somewhat in the narration) for the rest of this segment.


	33. IVG: Target Acquired

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part G of Page IV

"Target Acquired"

3rd person narration

"So, why do you call yourself 'the Z man'?"

"Ch', that's just some nickname I got for having good quality coke, and lots of it. You buying or what? I don't have all day."

"Your X any good?"

"Gotham's finest."

"What's the active empathogen count at?"[1

"What'd you say?"

"I asked how high the empathogen content was."

To this 'the Z man' turned and gave Wufei a thorough stare-down. The twenty-two year old pusher sneered, light blue eyes trying to figure out this young Chinese man who had suddenly approached him. He'd never had a customer ask him a question like that, and it made him suspicious.

"I said it's Gotham's finest, and it ain't cheap."

"I don't care about money, I care about quality. If it has any impurities or a low empathogen count I'm not going to waste my time."

This made the normally icy dealer smile a little bit. To the experienced dealer of six years, it didn't seem like this was a set up. And customers who knew this much were often sure to come back after trying out his good stuff.

"It's 50 a bomb, cash first."

"I take it you don't have it on you." Wufei dug through his pockets. That was normal, at least for the smart ones. Carrying the drugs on you in such a public, well-watched place was bound to get a dealer busted. Most likely a paid off staff member or an idiot willing to take the risk for a small share held on to the actual product while the dealer was out working the crowd. Wufei took out his wallet, fished out two bills and held them out for everyone to see. "Two for me. Burn me and you lose a potentially valuable client."

The Z man grabbed the bills quickly, looking around to see if anyone might have seen the exchange. He was no longer so confident about this customer's street smarts... "You wait here," he grumbled, and walked off.

-----

Quatre was still nowhere to be found. Trowa had searched for over an hour, and had only found the wake of destruction left by the intoxicated blond throughout the club. A broken bottle of champagne here, an unpaid bartender there, a finished eggshell of cocaine, a pack of Benson and Hedges, a second empty eggshell.

People had seen Quatre, but they weren't very helpful in locating him.

"Oh yeah, that blond dude." A young celebrity nodded. "He bummed a cigarette off me. He was all hyped cuz' they were the brand he smoked."

"That kid was fucked up out of his mind." An older investment banker took a blow himself.

"I was about ready to throw the shithead out 'til he said he was Winner's kid," a security guard grunted. "Fucking spoiled brats."

Trowa was about to give up. The crowd was thinning out on the main floor where he'd tracked Quatre to, hiding down in the VIP areas that Trowa would never be admitted to. It was entirely possible that Quatre had latched onto some fellow moneybags and was continuing his binge in another VIP room. There was no point in returning to Losman's room. He'd been gone so long that there was no way he'd get paid for this job. They probably wouldn't even let him back in.

He passed some young women, models or whores or something rich and/or famous, coming out of a bathroom. "That poor kid was sick to death," one said, disgust evident in her face. "To think he would go into the women's bathroom!"

"Was he short? A blond?" Trowa grabbed the woman, asking.

She looked at his hand on her shoulder like it would give her some sort of poor person's disease. Turning up her nose, she asked haughtily, "And who are you?"

"I-" Trowa began, but the woman's friend pulled her away.

"Let's leave," Trowa heard them say as they hurried away, high heels clicking rapidly. "Can you believe they're letting those kinds of bums in nowadays? You see what he was wearing?"

Trowa turned away, already wishing he hadn't heard. He had even tried to dress well today: his best pair of khakis, his only non-cotton shirt, complete with a collar, a tie he'd asked Katherine to 'borrow' from her father, used black shoes that were two sizes too small and that he'd spent an hour shining. He had told himself that he didn't care what other people thought. He certainly never openly acted like he gave a damn about other people's opinions. Everyone that had enough idle boredom to talk about him would often remark at how neutral, unmovable and stoic he was.

But Trowa was still just another person, even if he was very good at wearing a mask.

He took a long look at the Women's Bathroom door. A line of girls was queued up outside of it, gossiping about their important lives, trading notes on the latest fashion, comparing, criticizing.

Trowa pushed through them as rudely as possible, forcing his way into the bathroom.

-----

A black sedan pulled up. They got out, faces hidden in the night. The driver began to cruise around the block, acting lost, checking for police. They didn't check their coats. Security didn't search them. One of them hastily threw the cover fee at the bouncer, who hadn't allowed the remaining gaggle of undesirable hopefuls freezing outside in the cold to enter for over an hour. There was a furrow of eyebrows, a quick meeting of eyes, and then knowing nods. The door opened for them.

-----

He had worked in The Crow for five years, doing other stints as security and occasional bodyguard here and there. He had needed to live legitimately after narrowly escaping life in jail for double homicide, suspicion of being a gang member. That was bullshit though, the last one. He wasn't in just any gang. He was Mafia. Not just any mafia, Mafia.[2

He was watching the K-22 door, down on the second, 'undercover' level of The Crow when Heero and Duo got there. This part of the club was exactly as the blueprints had indicated, but Heero hadn't seen anything about a security posting there. Heero prepared to kick out his shoe knife and take the man down, but he needed to get close first.

"You're late," he said.

He had no name. Rather, all those who knew his name and would be willing to divulge it were dead. He had no face, no tattoos, no accent. And by that, I mean you better not fucking tell shit about those things to the cops or the courts, or your fucking family will be dead.

You know what? Let's just pretend he didn't ever exist.

Heero didn't know what to say until the man who never existed, certainly wasn't near K-22 on the night of two murders at The Crow, said, "You're the Jap, eh? You're here for the job?" The man without a describable face raised a bushy, black eyebrow, asking, "Who's the queer?"

"He's with me," Heero answered coldly. He was still ready to kill this man in a heartbeat. "He's safe. Who are you?"

He just snorted in laughter. That was the kind of a question that was a joke to a person who didn't exist.

"I got a piece for you, if you need it," the man said. His right hand, 'Mamma' in black ink just below his wrist, pulled out a heavy handkerchief from inside his orange jacket. He threw it onto the floor with a clunk.

"I doubt I'll need it," Heero said coldly, picking it up anyway.

All of this didn't bode well with the Japanese assassin in any way. Had the employer thought he'd need help on this mission? Why not tell him about this man? The gun was freezing cold in Heero's sensitive hands. His blood was pulsing through his veins, sounding like a rushing river in his head.

Heero couldn't shake the feeling that something important was going on. He couldn't put his finger on it. He was always careful and alert, but never paranoid, nor did he feel that way now. It was a different feeling, hard to describe. The normal thrill was more than usual, almost to such an extreme level that it bordered on making Heero uncomfortable. And it took a great deal to make Heero Yuy uncomfortable. But he was. This mission was different. This mission was important.

"Room 18," nobody said while opening the K-22 door, holding it for the assassins to enter. "The lock and security won't be any problem."

Heero and Duo went through.

Nobody shut the door and then went outside to smoke a cigarette.

-----

Trowa ignored the dirty looks, the evil whispers and everything about females in the lavatory. In fact, the girls seemed more irritated than surprised that a man was walking through their bathroom. One even helpfully waved him towards one of the center stalls, door slightly ajar. Or maybe she was just trying to waft away the stink of puke that was coming from the stall.

Quatre was inside. He'd puked everywhere except in the toilet. The seat was covered in red, brown, yellow liquid, orange chunks. There was some dripping from the stall wall it had slid down. Quatre was sitting in it, his thousand Armani suit getting ruined. He was facing the toilet, hiccuping, pale and green at the same time. There was dried blood under Quatre's nose. His eyes stared off into space, something certainly worse than vacant.

Trowa shut the door behind him, locking it. He stepped his carefully shined shoes in a puddle of vomit, kneeling down next to Quatre. The tall boy wiped a string of spit and barf that was hanging from Quatre's chin. The blond turned to him, blurred, beautiful blue eyes going wide.

"Towa?" Quatre sounded like he couldn't believe it. "Towa! Joo came fa me?"

Trowa just nodded.

Quatre's gamin face broke into an elated, touched smile. And then, out of nowhere, he darted forward and kissed Trowa.

The wasted Winner heir's lips tasted like bile. He reeked of upchuck and booze. Trowa was too surprised, too shocked to know what to do, so he did nothing. Trowa's mouth didn't move, his arms didn't reach out, he didn't even breathe. The lack of reaction reached Quatre, who pulled away quickly, embarrassed. Trowa didn't know what to say, or even how Quatre felt. They both sat there in a mess of vomit, silent, unable to communicate their feelings, too scared to. It was a horrible first kiss.

"'m sahrry," Quatre apologized, shame welling up. The monster of rejection began to eat him from the inside. It made him feel even worse than before.

"It's okay," Trowa said, but there was little comfort taken.

"You wanna do a line?" Quatre asked, not sure what else to do. He felt like some coke would really calm him down right now, get him on his way again, help him out of this mess. He held up an almost empty eggshell, bloody hand shaking.

"I'm fine," Trowa declined. He took a piece of toilet paper and wiped away more of the blood that had resumed dripping from Quatre's ravaged nostrils.

"Oh, okay," Quatre said softly. He went to put some coke into the ridges of his credit card, for himself.

"Please. Don't?" Trowa asked.

They both sat there, their best outfits getting ruined, people outside gossiping about them. There wasn't anything good to say. There were no ideas or escape exits that would solve the problem. They both thought about what to say to each other for a long time.

Finally, Quatre came up with something. "Thank you," he said, and passed out cold, barely caught by Trowa before landing in a puddle of his own spew.

Trowa held him for a minute before opening the doors and getting paper towels and water to clean them both up.

-----

They kicked down the door.

Slender got shot in the face. The brooding businessman got hit by an Uzi slug in his leg. Behind the bar, Denim returned several shots before getting caught in the neck. The whores screamed and screamed and screamed. One had been shot and lay bleeding while the others cried and tried to save themselves.

Losman wasn't there.

One man grumbled angrily into a radio. Others went to keep watch outside the door.

They began to shake down the crying, sniveling sluts. Where was Losman?

One of the whores said he'd gone up to the main area to meet a friend. He had thought it stupid to take the bodyguards with him. He was drunk and high.

They checked to make sure none of the whores were important people, people whose deaths would mean repercussion or trouble of some kind. Two of them were important. They were escorted to a car waiting outside. The rest were killed.

The man with the radio got a response. Losman had been spotted ordering at a bar on the main dance floor.

-----

"What are you looking at, Jap?" the well-dressed, obviously high young man spat. A young girl he had an arm around giggled.

If every Asian had a nickel for every time someone called them the wrong nationality... It wasn't worth getting pissed off over; but he did...

Wufei turned away. He'd seen the staggering and the expensive clothing, pondered whether or not to ask the guy if he was on anything good. Wufei grumbled to himself. Where was the Z man anyway?

Not getting a response, J.P. Losman turned back to the bar to get another drink for the slut he was planning on taking back to his apartment later. She looked like the kind who would have no problem with no rubber.

-----

18.

Heero couldn't place why that number struck him as important, but it did. Eighteen was the legal age to drink, the legal age for renting a hotel room or a car by oneself, the fourth part of Thursday's Powerball jackpot. Eighteen was also the official age that a child became an adult.

Heero felt very much like a child, staring at the big, shimmering, gold 18 on the door in front of him. Knowing the schematic, the setup of the room, likely places the target inside would be, likely places that armed enemies would be stationed, he had no reason to hesitate. But he did. He looked at the number, struck in awe of a situation that was ordinary at best... at least for a professional hitman of his caliber.

There was something about that number 18.

The legal age for becoming an adult, the end of innocence. After eighteen there were no excuses for ignorance, no reliable protection from the cruelty of the adult world, no official reason for not being held responsible for the things that one did in their life afterwards.

Heero put his hand on the handle to the door. It was so smooth.

Something very important was happening, was about to happen. He was sure of it, although there was nothing logical to explain the tremendous gravity of whatever lay beyond the golden number 18.

Heero opened the door to the unlocked Room 18.

He rushed in, scanning the room.

There were no guards, no cronies, no threats at all. An antique record player played a soft dance tune, maybe by Frank Sinatra.

There was only one person in the room. A woman, hair dyed blue, bobbed short and parted to her right, sat in a dark lounge chair.

The target.

She exhaled from a cigarette dramatically.

"And here I was beginning to think they were going to let me live!" She stubbed out the glowing end. Looking down at him with fond, but sad green eyes she said, "You can come inside if you want to, Heero."

-end "Target Acquired" Part G of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: "Closed Casket"

ID Notes:

No, 'they' and 'he' are not characters you can know as of yet.

More information on 'the target' in next chapter.

Notes:

[1: Empathogen is a term describing a fixed set of chemical hallucinogens, one of which is MDMA, the active compound in Ecstasy. The more Empathogens, the stronger the effect.

[2: The term 'mafia' has been taken sometimes to imply organized crime of various kinds. In reality the original 'Mafia' was the Cosa Nostra syndicate based out of southern Italy. Here, by using the term 'Mafia' I am NOT implying that this group is all made up of Italians (although the nameless 'He' is), simply that it is the prevalent mafia organization in Metro City that has roots in the Italian Cosa Nostra.


	34. IVH: Closed Casket

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

POV Note: Like the excerpts in the beginning, this page climaxes with POVs from the characters, rather than the narration as done earlier. I imagine you'll figure out who's speaking.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part H of Page IV

"Closed Casket"

Various 1st Person POVs

"You can come inside if you want to, Heero."

It took an extra moment to register. I was scanning the room: no security, no cameras, several bright red couches, four glittering footstools, a clean bar (the only place a possible hostile could be hiding), two lamps in the brightest purple lampshades I'd ever seen, two lounge chairs, one occupied.

I frowned at this, checking the room again. No sign of traps. I crossed the threshold into Room 18; not because she had said so, but so I could check the corners for enemies or cameras. There were none.

White female, five foot two, dyed blue hair showing signs of grey, thin black eyebrows, also dyed, dark green eyes, wearing a grey and blue dress, pulled out another cigarette. Hands not shaking, no perspiration under the arms. There was an open book sitting next to the ashtray.

Doctor Monica Arno had been expecting me.

"How do you know my name?" I asked. My voice was raspy. I was thirsty again.

She pulled out a black Zippo lighter. She looked at me for several seconds. I looked into her eyes.

The target–no–Doctor Monica Arno was ready to die. It was something that I'd seen only on a few faces of the many people I'd killed, but it was unmistakable every time you saw it. Oh, many had tried to brave it, had tried to appear as though they'd come to terms with it, but they couldn't fool me. There was simply no way denying it. That took a great amount of the excitement out of the job. Killing someone was no fun if they were ready to die. In fact, I downright hated it.

But with this woman it was even more than that. It was as if she were strangely happy, relieved, content. I don't know why I felt that I could tell what she was thinking or how she was feeling. It was something that had started happening before Duo Maxwell started dancing with me. An almost alien feeling, as if I understood and cared for perfect strangers.

"I knew they would send you. You're that person's favorite," Doctor Arno answered cryptically.

I lowered my gun. There was something important, more important than the mission, and I was tripping on some party drug smack in the middle of it. Behind me, Duo fidgeted. I could almost feel his restlessness. He was going to pay for messing with me when this was over.

"You can come in too," Dr. Monica Arno addressed Duo. "Are you Heero's friend? Will you be a dear and shut the door? I don't want anyone interrupting us."

"Whatever tickles your pickle, lady," Duo said, probably smiling like a clown.

Duo shut the door. Dr. Monica Arno lit her cigarette and let out a slow breath. She looked at me in a way I couldn't interpret. No hostility, no, almost the opposite...

"You boys care for a drink?" She waved casually towards the bar. I still hadn't checked behind it...

I raised my gun again, walking towards the bar, keeping an eye on the target, on Monica Arno as I did so.

"Could you get me some water while you're back there?" Duo asked. "I'm as dry as a nun's pussy."

"Get the goddamn water yourself," I barked, checking behind the bar. Nobody. Was she really all alone?

Duo strolled over to the bar and pulled out two glasses.

Dr. Monica Arno let out a small 'heh' in a puff of smoke, drawing my attention back to her.

"You didn't answer my question," I said, staring her down as hard as I could. "How do you know my name? Don't make me force it out of you." This woman had a face like stone, the kind that in agony would hardly grimace.

"Oh, Heero, don't threaten me, please." This woman was not afraid. "I was hoping you'd get here earlier. There's... there's a lot I wanted to talk to you about." The stone face washed away into a sad frown, looking down at the floor.

"But..." Then she took a new puff of the cigarette, quickly hiding her face in a cloud of smoke. "But I expect they want me dead in no less than... maybe half an hour?"

My watch beeped twice. Thirty minutes left. This woman...

I lowered my gun. There was something important, something way over my head.

"You know my employer?" I asked. "Did one of his men tip you off? I want to know who."

Duo turned on the faucet. Tap water, when all the expensive bottled brands in the world were just two feet away...

"Yes, I know the people who want to kill me," Monica Arno replied. "You know that old saying, 'friends close, but your enemies closer'? Well, it doesn't work so well when they're one and the same."

The man who'd given me the job had always been infallible. Never any problems, nothing unaccounted for. The missions were difficult, but he'd never made such a glaring error before as to leak my identity.

"If you tell me who the leak is, I will make your death quick and painless." That was about the only thing I could promise. "Who leaked my name to you? Who told you I'd be coming?"

"Haha, oh dear, you really..." Monica Arno had broken out into a chuckle, but somewhere along the way an interference had sullied her humor. She bit her lip and looked at me soberly.

"Nobody told me," she said softly, sadly. "I knew it wouldn't be anyone else. It was just a matter of when and where and how. I can't run from then. I could turn myself in, tell them what I know, and die in a police holding cell, but nobody would really believe me... So, I chose this place so it would give me a chance to talk to you, so I could die on my terms... not on theirs."

"That doesn't explain how you know my name," I pressed. Duo walked over to me with a glass of water in his hand. I waved him away. He shrugged and took a drink from mine.

I wasn't used to feeling in over my head in a situation I had no idea about, and I wasn't enjoying it in any way. A part of me wished I'd just gone in shooting, never giving her a chance to draw me in like this. Part of me wanted to just pull the trigger and get this over with so I could beat Duo Maxwell to within an inch of his life... and then maybe have my way with him...

"You're right, I don't have time to hear all the things you know about me, so just the name will do."

"Oh, honey, even if I didn't know all the things I do, I would have recognized you the second you opened that door," Monica Arno replied.

"That so?" I didn't understand. "Then-"

"It's because you look so much like your mother, Heero."

-----

"You know my father has almost 10 bil in Axis?"

"Axis? I've never heard of them. Is that like the cologne?"

"It's a company, baby, a big, fucking international one."

The arrogant shithead who'd called me a Jap was chatting up some stupid girl at the bar. For lack of anything better to do while 'Z man' got the goods, I was listening in on as much of their conversation as I could pick up over the mindless techno music. And before you give me that dirty look, I wasn't eavesdropping, I was simply killing the boredom as best I could.

It made me sick how some people used money as their shield, as a lure, as an ego. It was the erroneous belief that the more dead presidents they had in their checkbook, the bigger they thought their dicks were. This guy in the flashy white suit probably thought his was as long as an elephant's...

"Another two shots of Grey Goose over here!"

"Oh, JP, I don't know if I can drink much more..."

"Come on, baby, you only live once. Yo! Can I get some fucking service here or what?!"

The guy was your typical, young, urban sleaze ball. No honor, ego instead of pride, cowardly hiding behind his wealth.

"What'd you say, girl?"

"I said I'm cold!"

That's because you're wearing a strapless, super short skirt. I wanted to smack the dumb woman.

"Here, you can have my coat." I supposed that such actions were what people who knew nothing about the word called 'chivalry'... The cowardly sleaze was probably so proud of his gentlemanly action, flourishing his suit jacket like a flag. "But don't you spill anything on it."

... But at least that man, as pathetic as he was, had the freedom to pick his partners. Unlike...

"Yo." Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Blue hair and a furtive, defensive face.

It was 'the Z man.'

-----

"My mother? My... What the fuck kind of joke is this?" Heero snarled as he raised his gun. He was so sexy when he was angry and about to murder someone.

I took a deep drink from his glass. I was going to have to take a wicked big piss later, but better that than dehydrate and shrivel up like an old man's. I'd seen fuckers on X who looked like they'd been out in the desert for months cuz they were too goddamn stupid to drink water.

"I knew your mother," the woman in blue, whose murder I was about to be an accomplice to, said.

My parole officer was going to have my ass if I turned up in the pen again... But I pushed the thought out of my head easily, focusing on the colorful auras in the room. Well, colorful except for Heero's. The hunky, psycho dreamboat was like a big nasty blotch on a pornstar's cock.

Heero lowered his gun again. His face looked like he'd just seen his puppy squashed by an eighteen wheeler. This chick had hit him right where it hurt, digging into the nutsack. I really hadn't thought anything could surprise Heero Yuy. Guess that just went to show... I took another drink.

"What the– what the hell are you talking about?" Heero's mood had changed instantly at the woman's words. I'd heard that X could make people crazy moody, but this guy? Well, sure as Satan is big and red, Heero was moody. He wasn't half as sexy like this, all confused and flustered. It wasn't the 'OMFG what did you just do with your tongue?' kind of flustered.

"Your mother, Himiko, and I were friends," the woman said. Heero shook his head. "We met in college. Himiko was my roommate for three years."

Heero's face twitched every time the word 'Himiko' was said. I really liked Japanese names, all exotic and hard to pronounce. But Heero, well it was like the driver in the eighteen wheeler kept backing up over his puppy's roadkill every time he heard that name.

"My mother?" he said weakly.

At least he had a mother.

The blue haired woman– nice dye job, but one weird color to pick– said, "When you were a kid you had a large stuffed animal, a tiger. At the baby shower I gave it to Himik–"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Heero roared suddenly, raising his gun again. "You say you know my mother? You... And what if you do? It makes no difference!"

I finished the last of the water. The sexpot hitman was sweating now, and I was still thirsty, so I went to the faucet to get some more. That guy just needed to relax, blow the bitch's head off, and enjoy the X.

The bitch whose murder I was helping to commit sounded unfazed. "No, it doesn't make a difference. You're still here to kill me, no matter who I know." She had balls of friggin steel. I had to give her that. Then again, she was being one fucking huge cock-block... "But does it make a difference to you? I think it does."

"It makes no difference to me," Heero lied. I could tell he was lying.

"If you say so." The woman shrugged, stubbing out another cigarette. "I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable; you were still so young when she died."

I turned on the faucet. The clear water glided into the glass.

"Shut up," Heero growled. So that's what had happened? Life's a real bitch.

"Himiko was a great woman, and I have no doubt she was a loving mother."

"Shut. Up." Heero growled and shook with each word. He was furious, seething. Right now he wasn't the pro hitman. He was just another angry, sad and confused kid.

My glass was almost full. I started to fill Heero's.

"The past can't be changed," the dead woman said. In my eyes she was already good as worm food, and she'd be swiss cheese worm food if she kept pissing Heero off like this. So the dead woman went on, calmly looking past the barrel of Heero's gun and into his face, "And, for losing her when you were so young, I am sorry."

"I told you to shut up."

"I felt that you couldn't handle it when you were younger. But you're a man now. I think you need to know why she was murdered."

"Shut– What?"

A chilling, cold sensation shocked my hand. The water from the tap was overflowing out of Heero's glass. I turned off the faucet.

He looked like the truck had just hit him too. I sighed and took a sip off the top of his too-full cup. I was fucking spinning from the X. But this night was turning out to be a serious bummer. I wanted to go back out and dance or get a drink or get laid or do something! This shit was just too damn depressing.

"Your mother, Heero, she was murdered."

-----

... Um, well, I really didn't have many memories from that night, at least not past 11:30 or somewhere in that area. I remember being in a bathroom. I remember puking and getting some on my Armani, not to mention the pair of Crockett and Jones's that I'd bought only last month got absolutely demolished too. You'd think shoes worth 500 would be better than that... but no...

I do remember complaining about my shoes...

"Aww, fuck! Ma shooz!" I tried to brush them off, getting blood and vomit on my hand and sleeve. "Fuhin groths..." I held up my hand and pouted at it.

"We're out of TP," Trowa informed me.

"Uh?"

"Toilet paper," he said again, "we used it all. I'll get some from the next stall."

"No!" I grabbed onto his shirt, suddenly deeply aware of what was going on. I could hear voices outside. Girls' voices? "No! Two guyz comin' otta da thame tshall? Da'll ink 'm queer 'r sumthin'..."

Remind you, this is after I kissed him. Yes, that was one of the first things that came rushing into my mind the day afterwards.

"Joo dun haf a handkasheef?"

Trowa shook his head. I started to dry heave again.

"It's alright. Just use my shirt," he said quietly.

-----

"My mother died in a car accident." I tried not to remember.

"And that was why it was a closed casket at the funeral?" Doctor Monica Arno asked.

Clutching orchids in my hand, trying to crush them. The smell of incense and the neutral colored carpet below my feet the only things I wanted to focus on.

"I'm sure that's what your father told you, trying to protect you..."

My father's hand on my back. A small raised step in front of me. Looking up, a dark cylinder of mahogany wood reflecting the glimmer of candles and chandelier lights. The sound of crying, but not me... not then.

Because I had to, I saw the long stretch of mahogany with golden handle bars for hoisting and a name plate, also in gold.

-Himiko Yuy-

"They were horrible, Heero. They made her suffer."

Doctor Monica Arno was not really a doctor, at least not in the sense that she had passed all of the required legal trials to become one. She had several years of medical training with the Army, but was kicked out and never received a license to practice outside of the military. In fact, she narrowly avoided jail time over whatever she got in trouble for in the military. Afterwards she became a back-alley doctor, working in hotel bathrooms, patching up the criminals and gangsters who weren't about to go to a legitimate hospital.

This woman knew more about me than anyone I'd met. I didn't know whether to believe her or not. Could she be stalling for time? No. It certainly didn't seem like that was the situation at all. Could I trust her?

I had little choice...

And in twenty five minutes I would have to kill her.

I lowered my gun again. "I want you to tell me everything you know."

-----

"You want my number or what?" the Z man asked.

"Sure." I waited, smiling as I felt the folded cigarette plastic wrap in my pocket.

Inside were two tabs of 3-4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, MDMA or Ecstasy in the common lexicon, that I couldn't wait to get back home and analyze, one under a microscope, one by taking. Not today obviously; I was running late and Meiran had been in a foul mood when I'd left the house. Yes, more so than usual. Even though she liked to get to sleep early, she'd probably be waiting up just to berate me again...

"Here ya go." Z man passed me a piece of napkin with what might have been numbers scrawled on it. "Nice doing business with ya. Later."

"Wait a second." I stopped, squinting in the poor light. "I can't read this."

The drug dealer turned back quickly, irritated. "Go get me a napkin. Hurry it up."

I went up to the bar, just a few stools away from where the piece of shit yuppie was feeding the girl wearing his suit jacket another shot of liquor. Her hair was tucked under the suit, and from the back they looked almost the same because they had the same hair color.

There weren't any napkins on the bar. I tried to get the bartender's attention.

"You're just saying that!" the girl was cooing drunkenly.

"I'm dead serious, girl," the fuck-head who was wearing a tacky red shirt boasted.

The bartender was busy, not even looking over my way once. She was pouring several kinds of liquor into six different shot glasses.

"Stop that!" The girl half-heartedly pushed the guy away. That was one of the reasons I didn't like women, half the time they didn't really mean what they were saying...

"Hang on a sec, will ya babe?" the guy asked his girl.

He walked over towards and then right past me, stopping at a young blonde girl sitting two seats to my right. The blonde was a beautiful looking slut.

I still couldn't flag the bartender down.

"What's taking so long?" The Z man had come up behind me now, looking cross.

"Hey, do I know you?" the sleaze asked the girl on my side.

"I can't get the bartender to come over here," I explained.

"Well we'll have to do something about that, won't we?" The sleaze tried to be suave.

"I don't have time to waste here," Z man fumed.

"Hang on a sec." I tried to stall. "Hey! Hey barten-"

**BANG!**

I turned around. The woman wearing the yuppie's suit suddenly had her head blown into pieces, slumped onto the bar. People started screaming. The bass of the techno thudded mechanically. Four silver objects glinted in the strobe light, one smoking.

Next to me the yuppie went, "Oh my god."

One of four men in suits said something to the others. The guns pointed toward me.

-----

"This will sound very strange," the blue haired chick whose murder I was helping to commit but was taking forever to finish said, "but what I am about to tell you is the truth."

I sat down in one of the lounge chairs, just content to watch for a moment. I shivered as my naked lower back made contact with the cool material of the chair.

"There is a group called the Kindred Order of Atlas, a group that has been around for thousands of years, if not more. They aren't quite what you would call a political group, but they hold a lot of sway in upper circles around the world, and own several of the world's largest companies. They are very secretive; it is almost impossible to find out information on their members or activities."

"Some people say they have their roots in the Roman Empire. They were joined by old aristocratic and royal families, the Hapsburgs, Ottomans, emperors, the most influential from all around the world. Others have connected them with radical conservative movements in the last few centuries; Hitler, slavery, apartheid, Bosnia, Rwanda."

God, I hated history lessons. Some guy wrote some thing on some date and everybody's jacking off his decaying dick for centuries to come because of it. Some bitch poisoned some supposed genius causing the downfall of some empire. What this is supposed to mean for me I can't ever figure out.

"The Order used to run just about everything in the old world. But starting in the Information Age, things began to move too fast; their methods grew outdated, they started to lose power. There was violent infighting, a radical re-shuffle and the Order fell to never before lows."

"So this super secret 'order' guys are the ones that offed Heero's ma?" I asked, way too casually than was probably smart. Heero growled and looked like he was going to put one through my eyes. The dead woman shook her head disapprovingly.

Despite being unable to stop tonguing the inside of my cheek, I felt calm and at ease with everything. Whatever super-secret conspiracy there was behind this wasn't any big deal anyhow. There was no group of arch-villians running the streets, no wicked plots to take over the earth. Okay, this woman seemed to believe what she was saying, and Heero too, but it wasn't a big deal, no real problem. It wasn't like you could do anything about it anyway.

"Shut the fuck up or I will kill you too, I swear," Heero threatened me, not idly.

All the problems that people can never solve but still sweat, day in and day out, I always told myself, would feel like so much less of a problem if they just had someone to jump their bones at the end of the day. Someone to fuck them harder and faster and deeper until all the bad things were just not important anymore, not problems anymore. People just needed to blow their load and move on to the next warm bed, the next trick. Take solace in the here and the now. Yes, I tell everyone; yes, it is that easy.

"But recently the Order has gotten stronger again. They have enemies besides each other."

But instead they jack off their problems and suck the dicks of their boogie monsters until they're one hundred feet tall and the poor piece of shit that made them that way can't even enjoy his hamburger, let alone a good lay... They roll over and stay in the bed, covered in hot sweat until it gets cold, and then they're freezing. And they look at the person next to them and try to have that person be their savior. Are you catching these metaphors? Cuz I'm high as a kite right now and think you'd need to be just as fucked up.

"I don't care about all of this," Heero said. "I just want to know who killed my mother."

Fuck me, save me. Suck my dick, take me to heaven. Tell me you love me, make my fears go away.

"Is it really that simple to you?"

If God isn't answering your prayers, what the hell makes you think some guy you met at a bar, or in high school or during a convenience store robbery will?

"Yes, it is." Heero. "I don't care about any of that other stuff. It doesn't affect me."

Save yourself.

"The Order is fighting a war right now." I was wondering why this blue-haired chick was still alive and Heero and I weren't doing the haystack nasty on top of a bar. "And it affects everyone, you more than you'd ever imagine. Himi– your mother wouldn't just ignore it, even though she could. She wasn't going to let those bastards have their way with people's lives. She died because she fought for what she believed in. She thought that we... that _they_ were the alternative. But once she realized what ZEAL was becoming–"

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

I jumped off of the couch, the ringing of a siren like a fucking banshee singing an opera in my face. Several red lights blinked all over the goddamn place. Heero and the woman looked around, confused and shocked. This was not the kind of shit you want to deal with when you're rolling on E.

"Bitch, did you set us up?!" I yelled over the siren.

"No... no I didn't do anything." The woman who didn't even have enough time left in her life to watch an episode of Seinfeld seemed for real. She went up to Heero, her blue and gray dress reflecting the sirens and making her look like some tiny space shuttle about to launch into heaven. She put her hands on his shoulders, looked him in the face, and said:

"You have to get out of here. And you'll have to kill me before you leave."

-----

It was harder to tell what was louder, the gunfire, the people screaming, or the crappy techno music. The last two only pissed me off, but the first had me almost pissing my pants. In addition were the heavy strikes, like rain pounding on a window pane, of bullets smacking into the thick surface of the bar, and the soft tinkle of glass shattering and raining down from above. At first I didn't have time to take a whiff, but it reeked horribly from the smell of all the liquor gushing to the floor out of their exploding glass bottles. That and the dead bodies involuntarily shitting their pants... Yeah, thankfully I couldn't smell that.

Next to me the Z man was screaming, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?"

Next to him was the yuppie whose suit jacket was on the other side of the bar, getting saturated by the blood gushing from the massive hole in the girl's head who he'd been hitting on just a minute ago.

To my right, a bartender with dyed blond hair was convulsing, his hand as red as the yuppie's shirt.

The gunfire stopped for a second, but the screaming did not. I heard the yuppie say, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, they're going to kill me."

A roll of paper towels in front of me was soaking up the alcohol.

"Kill you!?" the Z man shouted. "They're going to kill _all of us_!"

Somewhere behind the bar a voice said, "Think we got him?"

The music stopped. The screaming began to fade away into the background. I swore I heard voices talking calmly, but my ears were still ringing. The paper towels in front of me were almost saturated with...

"Here he is; it's Losman alright," a voice above me said suddenly. It was a huge man in a black suit. He was leaning over the bar and looking down at the yuppie.

"NO-" A large hand grabbed the yuppie, Losman, by his neck, hauling him over the bar. "Please no."

"There's two others back here too."

"Let's finish the job first. We can deal with them afterwards."

"I can pay you! Whatever you're getting I can double it!" the yuppie begged.

Across from me, the paper towels were absolutely soaked through with alcohol. In front of me lay an intact bottle of spirits. I picked it up, reading the label.

"You two," the mobster waved his gun at the Z man and I, "sit tight for awhile."

I could still hear the yuppie screaming for his life. "Oh my god, please don't kill me."

The man in the suit walked away. Behind the bar the Z man was biting his fingernails furiously.

Waiting until I knew the mobster would be out of earshot, I motioned towards him. "I need a lighter!" I whispered to the Z man. "Give me a lighter!"

"What-?"

BANG! Then the dull sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

I grabbed at the nearly soaked roll of paper towels, holding it in the same hand as the bottle.

"A lighter! Do you have one or don't you!?" I whispered as loudly as I could.

"What about those two back there?" one of the men asked.

The Z man began to pat at his pants, searching.

"Kill them."

I felt true fear.

Footsteps approached the bar, slowly, heavy, louder as they got closer. Z man dug furiously in his pockets.

There was only one hope that I could see.

The Z man threw me a lighter, a Zippo. Perfect. Suddenly, somehow, I was very calm.

The clunk of a gun on the wooden counter top of the bar was right above me.

I spun the wheel on the Zippo. It sparked and the fuel fed it. Even without holding anything down, the flame rose and stayed perfectly. I thanked god for Zippos.

"Boo!" directly above me, a mobster laughed.

I put the flame to the roll of paper towels. The alcohol soaked paper began to catch and as the flames lapped my fingers I tossed it on top of the bar.

"What the-?"

I jumped up to see part of the bar just catching fire and three men in dark suits, all armed, staring at it with a puzzled look on their faces. I took the bottle of Everclear up and smashed it right onto the fiery bar.

Everclear is almost 100 alcohol. As the bottle shattered there was a bright flash of light, glass shards catching on fire and jumping everywhere, and a small fireball right in front of where I stood. The stunned gangster in front of me fell back, completely surprised. 'Boo!' to you too!

I ducked again, crawling on my hands and knees towards the sides of the bar. Glass stuck into my hand, the smell of alcohol choked my nostrils. Gunfire began to scream in my ears, raining against the bar. With a whoosh, the store of liquor caught.

The fire alarm went off.

-----

It was like a symphony of ill-tuned instruments were screeching in my ears. The red alarm lights flashed methodically. Another set of wailing alarms, the ones signaling for smoke or fire, began starting up, a raucous harmony with the other alarm. Somewhere, police and fire fighters were tearing up the pavement, heading straight for the Old Fairgrounds District. The time limit on the mission had just been changed.

Instinctively I raised my gun up at Monica Arno. Seeing that, she turned and her eyes met mine. She gave a weak smile and let out a deep sigh. She dropped her hands from my shoulders and backed just one step away from me, ignoring the weapon flickering in the lights, never breaking her gaze.

"Heero, we better make like a dog in Chinatown and get the hell out of here before we're cooked."

I ignored Duo. I only wished it was easier to always ignore him... He caused too many problems, was too big of a distraction, kept my mind away from where it had to be.

"Heero," Monica Arno said, face still practically touching the metal of my pistol.

I took a breath, lowered the gun and said, "You said you know who killed my mother. You said they made her suffer. I believe you're telling me the truth, that you're ready to accept death even for this." I didn't show it, but I was surprised at how normally I spoke those words. "I need you to tell me how to get to these people, who they are."

"..." Monica Arno paused. I didn't like it one bit. It wasn't that she was stalling for time; more likely that she was weighing whether or not to tell me something.

"I need all of the information you can give me, and I need it fast," I pressed.

"Your mother despised the Order and fought them until her last breath. But the ones who killed her were our allies, a counter-force that now calls itself ZEAL."

"Where are they?" I asked, focused for once on a mission all my own.

"Everywhere. They're all over Metro, and even Capital City. They're a loose group with only the top cells connecting. A woman named Artesia Deikun will help you. You have to find her."

"Names!" The primary objectives had already been established. I just needed faces to fill in the blanks after Kill .

"I've been out of the organization for a long time, before they killed Himiko... Artesia knows more than I do." She was hesitating to tell me something.

"You have names. If what you said before is true, then you wouldn't be doing this unless you had solid leads." There'd be no reason to kill her if she didn't pose some kind of threat to them.

"Rau la Cruz, CEO of Zodiac Pharmaceuticals. Things changed in ZEAL when Rau la Cruz came in. He stood for everything Himiko hated... He and Patrick Zala began to change the agenda. They-"

"Patrick Zala is the governor." I knew this without even watching the news. "Are you saying this group my mother was in is part of the state?"

"Yes, somewhat, yes. But it's more complex than that. Anyone trying to challenge the Order had to have power of every kind. We needed political, that was part of the reason we were so open to taking in la Cruz and Zala. ZEAL is bigger than just those two, but if you can get to them you'll find out more."

Monica Arno stared at me, and I swear by all the hairs on my head that she was not lying to me. It wasn't just that she claimed to know my mother. Nor was it her non-resistance to her own death.

"Now, Heero darling," she said, taking out another cigarette and lighting it amidst the screams of fire alarms, "you really have to hurry up and finish this. It won't do to spare me here."

Rau la Cruz.

Patrick Zala.

ZEAL

If Monica Arno was telling me the truth, these men's lives were forfeit.

But there was one other problem. I needed to know how Monica Arno knew I'd be the one coming to kill her tonight.

"What about my employer?" I asked.

Monica Arno looked at me sadly and shook her head. Instead of answering me, she said, "You need to find Artesia Deikun. Artesia Deikun can help you find out more. Now, you have to hurry-"

"Do you know the man who sent me to kill you?" I asked again. In all honesty, I felt that this woman must know more about him than even I did. Professional lack of disclosure was proving to be my foe for the first time ever.

"I know him," Monica Arno said softly, almost so that I could not hear it. I leaned closer to hear her mumble. "But he's different..." she trailed off.

"So my employer isn't connected to my mom's death?" Something didn't add up. I was 'that person's favorite'? She'd already known that I was coming... Monica Arno was about to be killed and all she wanted to talk about was why someone had killed my mother. How could my employer not be involved?

My watch began to beep incessantly. Ten minutes until the deadline.

"Well?" I pressed. She was holding out on me.

"Heero, we need to go now!" Duo shouted at me. I bit my lip, drawing blood it was so dry.

Idiot, I never asked you to stay...

"_Answer me!_" I screamed now at Monica Arno, clenching the gun and shoving the grooved end to her temple.

"I can't. I'm sorry, that's all I know! Now hurry! You have to-"

"Goddamnit, woman, I am going to _kill_ you! Tell me! Who killed my mom?!"

"ZEAL! It was ZEAL."

"Heero, we are running out of time!"

"ZEAL? You have to be more specific!"

ZEAL. Rau la Cruz. Patrick Zala.

"Artesia! Artesia Deikun will help you," Monica Arno repeated. "But now you need to hurry and kill me-"

"_No!_" I shouted, trying to shut out the sirens, trying to make sense of what was going on. "What are you hiding from me?"

"I'm sorry, Heero... I'm sorry I had to put this on you."

"Answer me!"

"I'm sorry... There's no time, Heero."

"Heero, we need to get the fuck out of here _right now!_"

My mother was a beautiful woman with dark hair and soft, loving eyes. She smelled like warm, freshly baked dough. On Fridays she would cook fish, even though neither me nor dad liked it. Eating fish would help me grow up to be a strong, healthy boy, she always said. She was always willing to read me a bed time story or let me stay five more minutes at the park, carnival or playground. She kissed my cuts instead of pouring alcohol on them. She would smile and watch when I called her name, and she always wanted to see whatever was cupped in my dirty hands that I 'really really really' wanted to show her. At night she would make me say my prayers and kiss me on the forehead. She made me feel like everything was always going to be alright, as long as we were together.

"Artesia Deikun?" I asked one more time.

"Yes." For her sake, I won't tell you what Monica Arno's face held in that last moment.

"Heero, we need to get the fuck out of here right _fucking_ now!!!" Duo Maxwell yelled.

"Thank you," I said.

I pulled the trigger.

-end "Closed Casket" Part H of Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: "Before the Blood Dries" (final part of Page IV)

ID Notes:

Dr. Monica Arno – A character from Gundam F91, the planned series after Char's Counterattack that was cut down from a 50 episode series to a single movie by staff bickering, one of Gundam's biggest "might have been"s. Here she plays the role of a woman Heero is sent to kill by an unknown employer.

Himiko Yuy - Heero never has a mother in the series or the manga. But in this AU fic he does and her name is Himiko Yuy. I chose the name because of an e-mail I received years ago, when I was seriously considering quitting writing forever, from a Gundam Wing fan, who called herself "Himiko Yuy"

Rau la Cruz – Mentioned previously, in Page II-B and Page III-F. Claimed to be a member of ZEAL, the organization that killed Heero's mother, by Monica Arno.

Patrick Zala – Mentioned previously, Page III-G. Governor. Claimed to be a member of ZEAL by Monica Arno.

Artesia Deikun – Mobile Suit Gundam. She is the person Monica Arno sends Heero to find.

ZEAL is an acronym, the full meaning of which will be revealed later.

You should remember the Order of Atlas from the previous Page.

Notes: I apologize for the length of this chapter. It is vitally important to the overall story, and I needed to close out all of the co-mingling storylines from this Page in roughly the same time period. I couldn't find a good spot to separate this part into smaller bits. Still, I hope you enjoyed it. It was very difficult for me to write.

The person who hired Heero to kill Monica Arno clearly isn't behind the effort to kill Losman. They both happen to be at the same place on the same night, but doing two murders like that would screw up the odds of getting both targets, as you might imagine.

While the previous Page focused on setting up the larger, overall story line, this one's goal was making it relevant for the main characters. Like most things, it's not clear where everything connects... but all in good time...


	35. IVI: Before the Blood Dries

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFallDOTcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page IV: A Crow Left of the Murder

Part I of Page IV

"Before the Blood Dries"

POV?

Response Report from Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin, 109th Precinct. February 18th.

1:50 AM – HC702 request sent in by 911 switchboards for 7 Fairgrounds Place. Patrol car 914 sent.

1:53 AM – Confirmed A702 dispatched by 911 operator. Multiple car request. All nearby 109th officers dispatched to 7 Fairgrounds Place. Lieutenant Noin leading from 109th. Requests sent to 108th, 101st and 111th.

PC 914 arrives on scene. Fire reported. Reports of gunfire and injured inside.

1:54 AM – Lieutenant Noin leaves 109th Precinct.

Reports of fire confirmed.

1:55 AM – 108th backup arrives.

On scene officers set up light perimeter in front of Fairgrounds Park, Officer Mueller on scene command.

Reports of injured confirmed.

1:56 AM – Call from Fire Sergeant of 2nd Gotham Ladder. Request for Level 2 Assistance. Fire confirmed at 7 Fairgrounds Place and jurisdiction of the incident taken by Metro Fire Dept.

Dead confirmed. Subject 4-.

1:57 AM – Trowa Barton is arrested by Officers Mueller and Alex. 774.

Dead confirmed. Subject 4-.

1:58 AM – First paramedic arrives on scene. Officers assist and escort.

1:59 AM – Lieutenant Noin arrives on scene. Full perimeter setup coordinated with 2nd Ladder.

First wounded taken to hospital.

2:00 AM – 101st backup arrives on scene. 1st Ladder arrives on scene.

2:02 AM – Potential eye-witnesses removed from scene.

2:03 AM – Second report of dead confirmed. Multiple dead confirmed.

Subject 4-.

Subject 4-.

Subject 4-.

Subject 4-.

(continues on page 2)

-----

"So, I couldn't help but notice when you gave your ID to the cop... your real name is Kamille, huh?"

"Don't call me that. Names don't mean shit in my business anyway."

"I really don't care much for nicknames. They're just another barricade people hide behind because they're too scared to face something."

"What the fuck are you trying to say? I just told you, names don't mean shit. What was yours, some shit like Chang? Yeah, like that's such a great name."

"Then you aren't opposed to me calling you Kamille, rather than the Z man?"

"Whatever... You did save my ass back there... Honestly, I don't care what you call me as long as it's not worm food."

"That thing with setting the fire was pretty awesome though, that was some quick, heads up shit. Sucks that you lost your dope though..."

"Well, better than going to jail. We were some of the last ones to get out of there, the cops were searching everyone at that point."

"Fucking pigs... Those motherfuckers always fuck shit up..."

"I take it you don't like the police very much."

"That's an understatement. I'm a pusher after all. Besides, the fucking pigs are just a bunch of self-obsessed bitches who suck each other off and eat donuts all day, at least when they aren't busying framing and beating minorities."

"...Yeah..."

"And you don't need to worry. I'll get you the X in a couple of days. You got my phone number now. Shit, I'll even throw in a little extra."

"I'll be fine with the original amount. I'm just curious to see how it is."

"You seem to know your shit. You been bombing for long?"

"Only the past three years or so. Actually, I study chemistry at the university."

"No shit. Some of the labbies I know used to do the same thing before they started going into business. You plan on doing the same?"

"It's more of a personal hobby to me..."

"Shit, well you could make a lot of money, you know? They're always looking for an extra nerd to help them out. I could introduce you."

"Really? That could actually be perfect. I've never met any underground drug producer with more than a high school education. If this X is as good as you say, I might want to meet the guys behind it."

"Like I said, you have my number, and I owe you one. Call me if you're interested and I'll see what I can sling together."

"Thanks, Kamille."

"Yeah, whatever, Chang... just don't call me that in public, will ya?"

-----

The patient is a five foot two, white male, blond hair, blue eyes, around one-hundred and ten pounds at last physical.

Systolic: over 135 mmHg.

Diastolic: over 90 mmHG.

Breathing is deep and accelerated.

Radial pulse indicates 200 BPM, cartoid pulse confirms.

The patient's name is Quatre Raberba Winner. As per my employer's, Zayeed Winner's, instructions I arrived on the scene the moment Quatre was identified by the on-site paramedics. Report from the on-site paramedic is as follows:

Subject has clearly ingested large amounts of alcohol and controlled substances.

Subject's companion refuses to identify said substances, although moderate bleeding from the nasal cavity, along with other symptoms typical of reactions to stimulant alkaloids, highly suggests cocaine.

Subject is incoherent and has trouble speaking or performing basic motor functions.

Subject has thrown up multiple times in the past hour.

Subject's companion arrested by local police for possession of a firearm without a license.

Subject becomes even more uncooperative.

Subject falls asleep, will be taken to hospital.

Subject's doctor arrives on scene, taking over subject's supervision and accompanying him/her in ambulance.

Patient has been hospitalized in the past for non-lethal overdoses of both alcohol and cocaine, as well as a brief term in Green Noah Psychiatric Ward after trying to take his life several years ago.

Blood/alcohol content reading is a .19, a high level that may partially be responsible for the patient's losing consciousness. Patient managed to vomit a fair amount of alcohol out of his system, avoiding more serious alcohol poisoning.

Patient is currently sleeping, breathing has normalized and vital signs are slowly evening out, but he will be taken to his private ward for continued monitoring.

This is the second time this month, and fourth time this year, patient has been hospitalized.

This formally ends this medical history entry.

Signed.

Iria Winner M.D.

-----

Officers Mueller and Alex are currently questioning the arrested individual, Trowa Barton. Barton has initially been charged with possession of a firearm without carrying a license. He was arrested just outside of the southern emergency exit of The Crow, a bar and disco tech located at 7 Fairgrounds Place, Gotham, Metro City.

At 1:57 AM, Trowa Barton was taken into custody, read his rights, and moved to the 109th Precinct for questioning by Officers Mueller and Alex. His firearm was confiscated.

"Twenty murders, threatening the lives of hundreds of people, arson, resisting arrest, public drunkenness, and you were first spotted leaving the building with that blond kid, Winner's son, so kidnapping too? Man, you are totally up shit's creek, Barton." Officer Mueller.

"That's not true. I didn't do none of that." Trowa Barton.

"There's no point lying to us. Maybe we won't get you on all those, but we can definitely get you on the weapon's charge, and that is going to make you a prime suspect for everything else that went on there tonight. You better hope you have a damn good lawyer." Officer Alex.

"I can't afford a lawyer." Trowa Barton.

"If you make a confession now, we can try to have the D.A. not press so hard when it comes to sentencing. Darlian's looking to make an example out of fucks like you. You're looking at three years' hard time, at the least. Depending on how many murders they get you for you're looking at twenty-five to life." Officer Alex.

"Or if you start naming whoever hired you, who helped you, who your bosses are-" Officer Mueller.

"I didn't kill anyone. I was hired to be a private bodyguard for the night. The club just let us all in, didn't even check for licenses or whatever you're all talking about. For Pete's sake, I was in a woman's bathroom when the alarms started going off and-" Trowa Barton.

"Oh, so a killer and a pervert! The jury is going to love that! Hahaha." Officer Mueller.

"I didn't kill no one. I didn't fire a single shot." Trowa Barton.

"You were drunk! Probably hopped up on meth or some other drug too. Your word won't be worth shit." Officer Alex.

"I wasn't drunk or high or nothing like that. I didn't have anything." Trowa Barton.

"Then why do you reek like booze?" Officer Alex.

"It's because I was taking care of Quatre. He threw up on me." Trowa Barton.

"Oh yeah, the kidnapping charge. Whooo, you are in-" Officer Mueller.

The door opens.

Captain Lucrezia Noin enters.

Officers stand at attention.

"At ease." Captain Noin. "This the kid you brought in from the bloodbath at the Fairgrounds?"

"Yes, Captain. We were just in the process of questioning him." Officer Alex.

"Leave him to me." Captain Noin.

"But-" Oficer Alex.

"Now!" Captain Noin.

Officers Alex and Mueller salute and leave.

Captain Noin reviews the case file.

"You are aware that everything in this room is being recorded and that it can and will be used if you are brought to trial?" Captain Noin.

"Yes." Trowa Barton.

"Well then listen to me good here, Barton, because I am up to my ears in dealing with this mess and I don't have the time to screw around with someone being held on a possibly unrelated misdemeanor charge. I'm going to be straight with you here; that charge will be dropped if you cooperate with us. But if at any point you ask for your lawyer, I can't cut you a deal without one. I don't have time to do that, so if you ask for your lawyer, all bets are off and you're going to be held to face trial. Understand?" Captain Noin.

"Yes." Trowa Barton.

"What were you doing at The Crow tonight? And no bullshit, because I know more than you think, and I'll see you stewing in the can for as long as possible if you jerk my chain." Captain Noin.

"I was hired as a bodyguard. I was protecting my client, which is why I had that pistol there. The club let us-" Trowa Barton.

"What is your client's name? Who were you supposed to guard?" Captain Noin.

"Los... Losman? I think his name was Losman. Something like that." Trowa Barton.

"Why did he hire people like you to guard him? What was he afraid of?" Captain Noin.

"I have no idea. The only question I asked was how much I was going to get paid." Trowa Barton.

"Real mercenary of you, huh?... Was Losman involved in drugs or organized crime?" Captain Noin.

"No more than any other respectable businessman, I'd reckon. How should I know?" Trowa Barton.

"Anything suspicious going on in his VIP room? Anyone coming and going, or making lots of phone calls? An argument ever break out?" Captain Noin.

"I didn't notice anything." Trowa Barton.

"Well, we already know there were drugs, as I'm sure you did too. What were the names of the people in Losman's room?" Captain Noin.

"I'm not a rat. I'm not pinning anything on nobody." Trowa Barton.

"The names would only be used to identify the victims." Captain Noin.

"What?" Trowa Barton.

"Almost everyone in Losman's VIP room was killed, shot to death. We just got a witness saying that Quatre Winner and someone fitting your description were there for most of the night, but left before the murders took place. Why did you leave? Did someone tip you off?" Captain Noin.

Trowa Barton remains silent.

"It would be almost impossible to tie you in with the murders, but, like I said, that weapon's charge can land you in jail for at least a few months." Captain Noin.

"The two hired with me went by street names, Slender and Diesel, I think I recall. A guy called 'the B man' sold some drugs to one of the guys there, I don't know his name. He had dark blue hair, blue eyes, medium build, about half a foot shorter than I am. I guess you'd call him suspicious, but he didn't seem like he was there to kill no one. All I'd heard is that the guy who hired us was afraid of some mafia guy, someone he pissed off somehow. Aside from that, I really can't tell you much about anyone there. I'm sorry, but that's the truth." Trowa Barton.

"One last question for tonight. You're going to be staying here overnight, I have more things to ask you about what happened at that club. But for now, just tell me one more thing." Captain Noin.

"What is it?" Trowa Barton.

"Where were you on the night of December 17th?" Captain Noin.

"Huh? The... But that was months ago. I don't know. I was probably working or at home. Why?" Trowa Barton.

"No reason." Captain Noin.

Trowa Barton strongly matches the description of the masked criminal wanted in the murder of Officer Oz and in the attempted murder of Officer Barbuta. There is, however, still a lack of evidence with which to bring him to trial for said crime. Surveillance and a follow-up investigation will be pursued.

-----

"Hey, hey! Where do you think you're going?"

"Home."

"Are you kidding me? We had a deal! You can't just- Hey! Wait up!"

"Would you keep quiet? This is a residential area."

It is almost pitch black in the early hours before dawn. All the windows are ink dark and even the wariest of dogs yawn slightly if still awake. There is almost absolute silence amidst the brown stone houses, where in a few hours cars will be honking impatiently and garbage trucks will rumble heedlessly as the millions of people in Metro City wake up for another day.

A few birds are chirping and there are sirens in the far away distance.

"God fucking damnit, Heero, we had a deal!" a voice hisses, vexed.

There is the sound of feet stopping short on the concrete sidewalk, then:

"Would you shut up already?" The answer is a suppressed growl, a voice choked up almost. "You shouldn't be here. It was a mistake to let you tag along..."

"Well you did, and guess what? I was pretty damn helpful if I do say so myself. Maybe your big, sexy dome-piece is too big for you to admit it, but we make a pretty good team. No, no, don't you start walking away or I'll scream bloody fucking murder and wake every Tom, Dick and Jane on this street up."

"I'd blow your head off before you even got a word out."

"Oh yeah, and like a loud-ass gunshot would be better."

"Fine. Fine. Say whatever you want. But you only have one minute. I'm already late reporting in..."

An invisible clock starts ticking in one's head as his companion folds his arm and thinks. This one bites his lip, looking at the pavement and wrestling with what words to use. The streetlights glimmer with an artificial orange tint in his long chestnut brown hair. He heaves a sigh after wasting ten precious seconds.

"I could tell you weren't comfortable with me being in the room when all that shit went down... I know that was some pretty personal stuff, and I'm sorry about what happened to your mother and-"

"It is personal," the figure in shadow, white dress shirt betraying his position, cuts in. "It has nothing to do with you, so just forget about it and keep your mouth shut."

"NO! _You_ shut up and listen!" the long-haired one raises his voice, startling the other. "You gave me a minute and I'm going to say what I want in that minute and you're going to fucking listen to me. Alright?"

There is a moment of silence before the long-haired figure takes a breath and continues, "I'm sorry about your mom." He pauses, waiting for a reaction from his companion. There is none visible. "I was an orphan and never had any flesh and blood relative I could give two shits about, so I won't lie and say I have any clue what you're going through right now. But I am honestly sorry."

The other says nothing, but if there was light enough to see, his eyes would clearly be silently thanking his friend.

A friend...

How long had it been since he'd had one of those? Even when he was younger, they had only been kids who he simply either played with, hung around with, or who pretended to be his friend because they were afraid of him or wanted something from him.

"If you're going to go after these guys, these ZEAL guys or the Order or whoever, it ain't going to be a cakewalk. I know you want to do it alone, take on the world all by yourself, whatever. But you don't need to, not alone at least." The long haired youth takes a step forward, and another.

"I don't know if there's anything I can do," he continues.

And this one, was he a real friend? The distance between them closes.

"But I want to." He puts a hand on Heero's shoulder, rubbing comfortingly, thumb barely grazing the skin of the boy's neck.

"You don't need to face everything alone," Duo whispers, leaning closer.

Their foreheads are almost touching, each breath filled with the one across from them, taking each other in. Even in the darkness their eyes find each other's, cobalt trying to shut out violet, violet trying to pry cobalt open. When they breathe in they can taste each other.

"So please," Duo murmurs, his breath fluttering on Heero's lips, "let me."

Duo's lips feel so warm, so soft. Heero instinctively opens his mouth as if to swallow him inside, closing gently on Duo's upper lip. The taste is of light lemons. Duo kisses back, almost gently gnawing on Heero, sucking slightly on the soft pink flesh of the other. Duo wraps his arms around Heero's neck and leans in closer, making the kiss deeper. Their bodies brush together and they breathe into each other, faces growing hot on a cold March night.

For a moment Heero had never known anything better.

Then Duo stuck his tongue in. Cobalt flashed wide at the invasion. A strong hand pushed Duo away, resisting the urge to maintain contact with Duo's bare midriff.

Duo simply stared at Heero for awhile, eyes asking 'why?'

"Your minute is up."

It was just another person wanting something from him... Just another person trying to get something out of him.

"I have to report in." Heero turns away.

"You think you can treat me like shit after I helped you out like that? Huh?!" Duo yells, shivering now as the warmth begins to leave his body. "You... You fucking bastard. You're a fucking asexual piece of shit! You hear me!?"

"Stop yelling!" Heero yells, turning around.

A dog begins to bark.

"Look, just leave me alone." Heero shakes his head, looking around nervously for any lights indicating waking eyes. "It's better for both of us that way."

"You really think so?" Duo asks, eyes darting to the ground.

"Yes, yes I do."

"Fine. Get the fuck out of my sight. I don't ever want to see you again anyway."

-end "Before the Blood Dries"

-end "A Crow Left of the Murder" Page IV in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: Act V: "Steps Down an Unlit Path."

Notes: Yes, all we get is the (important) first page of Noin's report.

The map for this part is mostly Metro police and fire locations, as well as an in-map, larger overall view of the Fairgrounds District.

Cop Lingo: Some of this stuff I made up, but may use again.

HC request: High Caution request. Means potential danger for officer, at least as claimed in 911 call.

PC: Abbreviation for Patrol Car.

702: Code for "Shots Fired – Potential Hostile".

A: A level priority, the highest level.

774: Possession of a firearm without a license.

ID Notes:

Kamille Bidan – Previously referred to as "the Z man". Main character in Zeta Gundam, hence his street name, oh so clever... not... Here he is a young, up and coming drug dealer in Metro City.

Iria Winner is Quatre's older sister (youngest of the Winner daughters) in Wing, the one who takes care of him after the L4 incident. Like in the show, here she is a doctor, Quatre's personal one at that.

Note:

Sorry about not including Trowa's getting arrested. It just didn't work as a 1st person POV in the previous chapter, and I felt the police report and recording were enough to catch people up on what had happened.


	36. Page V: Steps Down an Unlit Path

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page V: "Steps Down an Unlit Path"

Part A of Page V

"106th Precinct Nets Massive Drug Bust"

Zech's POV

"And then, and this is the best part...!"

I had to hand it to Walker; he'd done one hell of a job.

"And then I threw off the hat, pulled out my gun and screamed, 'GET YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!' "

The enthused officer's voice boomed off the walls of the surprisingly quiet precinct as he recounted for his buddies. Almost everyone in the entire 106th Precinct was surrounding Walker's desk. He cocked his thumb and pointer finger at a 90 degree angle in the classic 'five-finger six-shooter', acting out his epic bust.

I frowned and spat out the scalding, first sip of coffee from my mouth. The beans had gone stale.

What I wasn't so sure about were the methods Walker had employed. Withholding the matchbook–the initial lead–was a trifling matter. Nobody even knew it existed, certainly not that I knew about it. The fact that the official report omitted the link between the failed Gotham Harbor raid and the strip-club, which ultimately had led to Walker's bust; that wasn't going to make me lose sleep at night.

However, the guy I had had to go out and personally pick up, the one who had supposedly assaulted Walker, was more of a concern.

"My client says that it was Officer Walker who approached with threats and struck first," the defense lawyer had told me. "If what he says is true, then a lawsuit could be brought against your precinct and the entire city. Abuse of police power, unprovoked assault, holding a citizen on false charges..."

The girls at Candi's had unwittingly helped Walker locate the owner of the matchbook, a grunt allegedly working in a smuggling ring, a simple mover and transporter who posed as a fisherman and bribed the harbor inspectors into leaving him be. But at this point the trail had gone cold. Despite several off-the-clock stakeouts, Walker hadn't been able to dig up anything solid.

He'd jumped the man on a sheer hunch. After his regular work at the docks, on the 9th of March, Walker noticed the man didn't go to the bars or liquor store as usual. Instead, following him home in his own personal vehicle, Walker had waited outside and watched through the partially closed blinds as the man took several phone calls, microwaved a late dinner, and then set out around 10:30 at night.

Walker had assured me that nobody had seen him follow the man from his home, or see him pull him into the alley, pummel the man until he spilled the beans, and then stalk over to the garage where the deal had been going down. Walker swore that he would never do anything to bring trouble to me or the force. I trusted him... But, could it be possible that someone had overheard the yelps and shouts for help that the man had gotten out before Walker gagged him? Could a doctor figure out that the man had been bound and then beaten? That the wounds weren't inflicted in self-defense? If the crim's appeal started an investigation, then what?

"It's my word versus his," Walker had whispered over the phone. "He's a fucking low-life. Nobody's going to listen to scum like that. It won't be a problem."

I could only hope so.

-----

"Captain Merquise, how did Sergeant Walker discover the large cache of contraband?" The reporters were like insects, buzzing around the feasts and the carcasses.

"Good, honest detective work," I'd replied.

"What were the size and types of drugs seized?" another buzzed. Cameras flashed.

"The Evidence Analysis Department is still researching that." Here I could be truthful. "Among the crates found in the truck we found cocaine, heroin and as-of-yet unidentified designer drugs."

"My first month in office and you're already making me look good, Zechs," Treize had phoned to congratulate. It had been a long time since I'd last talked with him.

The newspapers had jumped on the long friendship Treize and I shared. The reporters were constantly outside my door, home and office, asking if I had anything to say about Metro City's newest mayor. I was a good civil servant and fed them the sound bytes that had been e-mailed to me.[1

Treize's first few speeches had all been filled with rhetoric and vague promises, the kind of crap voters and the press eat up like candy. The new mayor and District Attorney Robert Darlian were very different people, but they were a force to be reckoned with when united. The City Council was expected to pass almost all of Darlian's proposed reforms. However, the compromise between the two had meant excluding some changes. Those that had been stricken (to ensure the new, already beloved, mayor's signature) included harsher penalties for white collar crime, tax evasion, insider trading. Protect the friends in high places.

"We are going to clean up Metro City!" Treize's first speech was by far his most impressive. The man had a commanding presence and could rouse the crowd while keeping his composure. "We will stop violent crime. We will end the oppressive reign of gangs and criminal networks We will get rid of the drugs, the prostitutes, the hoodlums. This always has been, but we will ensure that people have no doubts when they say that Metro is the largest and finest city on the planet!"

Yadda yadda yadda. Politicians do sure love to talk... Or, rather, maybe it's the people that love to hear them talk; that want– no, _need_, someone to tell them that everything will be alright; that tomorrow will be brighter, that it's getting better all the time. It can't get no worse.[2

Bigger police force. Improved schools. More criminals caught and imprisoned. Deeper investigations into the mobs. More street patrols. Better public transportation. Jobs, good, honest jobs that you can raise two kids and a dog on. Better sanitation services. Faster, more efficient social service agencies. Better public housing. Better medical care.

The catch? Hahaha. No catch. Not yet...

But don't be surprised when this time next year taxes are being raised by double digits.

-----

Sorry, I was digressing again... I seemed to have acquired the bad habit of dwelling too much on the activities of others. It was especially bad when the 'other' happened to be my old friend and mentor. I paid more attention to him than I did to myself. His issues became more important than my own. Good dog, have a biscuit...

But the bird I'd dragged home this time for my master had left a bad taste in my mouth. I couldn't get rid of it, that nagging feeling, the 'this is too good to be true' feeling.

"And when I had them open up the back of that truck!" Walker was positively glowing. He always loved listening to tales of glory and victory. I suppose the same disposition leans towards telling them as well. "Holy shit! I'd never seen anything like it. Stacked to the fucking _ceiling_ with crates and crates of the stuff. The entire truck! Like they had no fucking brains to try to disguise it as something else."

That's what was bothering me, the stupidity, more like unbridled boldness, of the handlers. The four men arrested were all Nuova Cosa, the 'New Thing'. Not a single one had uttered a word since being brought in, but their criminal records spoke for them. Nuova Cosa, Metro City's Mafia, survivors of the oldest, richest, and most ruthless syndicate in the known crime world, the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, were usually so slippery that you couldn't even catch the ghost of where they'd been.

An entire truck, a massive eighteen wheeler, loaded with drugs. Taking it right down Triphammer Boulevard, almost right past a- _my-_ police precinct. No disguises, no extra escorts, not even a fake crate to show to an officer. Only two of the men were carrying guns.

Why put all the eggs in one basket? Why not assign more guards? Why _my_ precinct?

"Captain?"

"Huh?" I snapped out of the daze, glancing around the office. Walker was doing paperwork, the crowd listening to his story had dispersed. How long had I been-

"Is everything okay, Captain?" Maiser asked me.

I nodded, blinking away the fatigue and stress. "I'm fine, Maiser. What is it? Are you already done analyzing those drugs from the bust?"

Maiser looked around, uncharacteristically looking nervous. "About that," he lowered his voice, "I need to talk to you, but not in front of everyone."

Maiser was another one of those guys I trusted. He wasn't much to look at; slightly overweight, crew cut brown hair, brown eyes, showered infrequently. He was two years younger than I and worked for A-Sector.

A-Sector was the name of Metro City Police's Analysis Department. I wouldn't lie and say I had a clue as to what they did there, or how they got it done. But I had gotten to know Maiser pretty well, as he, Walker and Otto were all buddies. I had specifically requested that Maiser head the inquiry into the contents of Walker's bust. I always requested him for the important ones... Every precinct had a small analysis lab, but A-Sector House[3 was located at the 111th Precinct, across the bridge in Metropolis. For Maiser to come all that way to speak personally wasn't a good sign.

-----

"You have no idea what it is?" I repeated, dumbstruck. We were in my office now, door closed. I'd never heard Maiser say he couldn't break something down.

"I've never seen anything like it," Maiser spoke fast. He had this mixed expression of anguish and joy on his face, like a kid stuck on a puzzle that he can't wait to finish. "It's not like the crude, shitty substances we usually net from busts like that. I honestly don't even know if it's contraband. Hell, I don't even have the slightest clue what it would do to the human body if it was ingested or snorted or injected. It has this mass of-"

"Wait." I put up a hand. Maiser's chatter had been known to cause massive headaches, especially for me. It was almost impossible for me to follow his train of thought, let alone deal with all the jargon he could spit out. "Wait, they're not drugs?"

"Well, the analysis is still in the very early stages, but I don't think so. The chemical makeup, at least from the first time I took a look at it, doesn't fit any descriptions on Federal's Controlled Substances list. So it's possible that it's not even illegal."

"Then why would Nuova Cosa be transporting it?" I asked aloud. It didn't fit. Drugs that weren't illegal were usually pretty harmless or so new that the government hadn't identified them yet. If a serious group was involved in anything this risky, it had to be profitable; so I was almost willing to bet that it was the latter-

I gave Maiser a hard stare. He was looking up at the ceiling fan, biting his nails and mulling something over in that Newtonian brain of his. He didn't even notice I was staring at him.

"What did you mean by 'the first time' you looked at it?" I asked.

"Hm?" Maiser shook his head, a cuticle stuck to his lip. "Oh, that. Yeah, well, the substance is really volatile. Not dangerous or anything; it just keeps mutating is all."

"Mutating?" I tried not to think what that might mean. A dull pain started up at the back of my head.

Maiser nodded. "God only knows what it'll look like tomorrow!" He added gleefully, "Right! That's what I came here to ask you about." Maiser leaned forward. That faraway look in his eyes left. "I want you to request that I continue the analysis at the 109th Precinct."

"Why?" The headache started kicking in. I was going to have to pull a Big Brother[4 to get Maiser temporarily transferred. Noin would have no problem doing me the favor, but Une at the 111th, the head of the police force, always seemed to bear a grudge against me.

"They can get access to the University labs, where there's equipment that I think would help me figure this thing out," Maiser said. "Also, I..." He trailed off.

"What is it?"

"Well, it's... Someone tried to break into the lab yesterday at the 111th . It was late at night and I was in the bathroom," Maiser frowned. "Only other officers can get that far into the building. I crapped my favorite pair of boxers chasing the guy out. No clue who it was."

"Did you report this to Une?" I asked. I already knew the answer, but it was regulations to go through one's superior officer in those cases.

"No. You're the first person I've spoken to about it except for Otto," Maiser replied.

Otto...

"How's he doing?" I found myself asking. I hadn't gone to visit him for almost two weeks now. That was bad of me, as a comrade and as a superior. As a friend it was terrible.

"Says he'll probably be out of the hospital in the next few days," Maiser spoke, faintly smiling. "Apparently he's got this project he wants to start on, can't wait to get out of that place. He'll have to do physical therapy and... and he's going to be confined to a wheelchair, probably for the rest of his life..."

"You'll get the lab at the 109th, and extra security. We're going to get to the bottom of this," I was surprised how serious and heated my words sounded. It made no sense, but for some reason I felt like figuring out this case, maybe giving a black eye to Nuova Cosa, would somehow make up for never finding the bastard that crippled Otto.

"We're going to go visit him the day he gets out, throw him a big party," Maiser said. "I know he'd love it if you were there. I know you're busy though."

"I'll be there."

-end Zechs' POV

-end "106th Precinct Nets Massive Drug Bust"

Part A of "Steps Down an Unlit Path", Page V in the Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation arc.

Next: Bad Habits - Wufei's - Stealing from the Old Alma Mater

As I said before, I'm going to have to be slowing down a bit. I've taken on more hours, and I'm also trying to get ready for my new job, so a chapter a week is about the maximum I can do!

Notes:

[1 You'd be shocked how often this actually happens in the real world. People told what to feed the press...

[2 This is a direct reference to the Beatles' song "Getting Better"

[3 A 'house' is what some police officers call precincts.

[4 A 'Big Brother' is a term for when an officer 'pulls rank', getting a friend in high places to do some favor for them or get them out of trouble. In this case it's Zechs' going through Treize to get Maiser transferred.

Also, did you catch the inverse-reference to Goonies at the very opening?

ID Notes:

Maiser – Maiser is the OZ mechanic who secretly repairs the Wing Gundam after Heero self-destructs it in Siberia, so that Zechs can have his wish of dueling with him again. Since there are no Gundams here I figured why not make him a lab jockey?


	37. VB: Bad Habits: Wufei's: Robbing the Uni

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page V: "Steps Down an Unlit Path"

Part B of Page V

"Bad Habits - Wufei's - Stealing from the Old Alma Mater"

Wufei's POV

"Blast it!" Tsubarov grumbled to himself. I was glad for the surgeon's mask covering my smirk. "_Vino_! Didn't I tell you I don't take any cream or milk with my coffee?" Tsubarov turned on the unfortunate Vino, the young lab assistant who was just two years older than I.

"I, I always tell them not to put any milk in, Professor Tsubarov," Vino tried to defend himself. You could tell which one of the white masks and lab coats he was from the red patch dyed in the front of his brown hair.

"You can't just tell those peons, you have to _check_!" Tsubarov's anger was great, although misguided. "I've told you a million times I can't have milk!"

"I did check!" Vino protested. I felt sympathy for the poor youth on the very bottom rung of the lab technicians, constantly the gopher, fetching coffee, photocopying, transporting packages. He hadn't graduated from Harvard Chemical Engineering to be a crotchety old man's bitch. But that's what he was, partly because he would never stand up for himself.

Tsubarov scowled, and he was probably about to lash out with some cutting remark when his eyes bugged and his body lurched forward. He grabbed at his stomach, then at the surgical mask. I could imagine the sound the wizened intestines were making. Those were some powerful laxatives I'd snuck into his coffee.

"I- ugh, I'll speak to you when I get back! - Oh!" Tsubarov's threat was followed by his colon's own of losing control and making an awful mess under his lab coat.

Vino looked my way. His big green eyes didn't have any accusation or suspicion, only a plea for empathy. I shrugged helplessly at him. After all, I'd already helped him out by bringing the Professor his coffee and paper while Vino struggled to handle the broken copy machine. One nasty paper jam if I do say so myself. Vino had been the one to go to the store and get the fated cup, I'd just added an extra flavor of my own.

Tsubarov lurched for the door, growling commands at Joulan, a dark, handsome Indian scientist, and the group working on the particle accelerator. It was almost time. I let Professor Tsubarov click the door open. I watched his gloved hands remove the mask, his face exasperated and strained.

"Professor Tsubarov!" I yelled to him, just before he could step out. I rushed to his side.

"What is it?" He glared at me.

"We have to add the Acrylonitrile to the Hydrogen Sulphide solutions," I reminded him kindly.

"I'll do it when I get back!" he snapped, lips curled like one restraining a bull from entering a room painted in reds. Tsubarov's beady eyes focused on the bathrooms at the end of the corridor.

"The solutions are atomizing. We have to add the Acrylonitrile now or we'll lose the past two days' work!" I faked urgency. The atomization wasn't going to become crucial for another ten minutes or so.

"Then do it!" Tsubarov began to walk away. I smiled under my mask and said:

"The Acrylonitrile is still locked up in restricted storage. Only you have access to that..."

Tsubarov cursed. He was beginning to sweat. He tensed as he stared at the bathroom door, so close, so very necessary. He was going to be in there for awhile.

"Fine, hurry up and grab it," Tsubarov yielded. Nature's calling was about to knock down his bowel's door. "But make it quick and don't let anyone see you! You're not supposed to be back there." The old man had to remind me of the rules and procedures, even when he was about to defecate in his drawers. He thrust the keycard into my hands.

"I'll keep it secret," I promised. That was sincere.

Tsubarov set out in a sprint for the bathroom. I reopened the door to the lab, checking briefly on the amodium pyroxide I was preparing for tomorrow. Then, making sure everyone was occupied, I slunk over towards the back of the Einstein Memorial Wing's laboratory. I made one final check. Everyone was working except for Joulan and Vino, who were earnestly engaged in a conversation, probably about lacto-intolerance and coffee.

I swiped the keycard through the door's security device. A metallic click, then a soft whir came from inside, music to my ears. I pulled the handle downwards and entered the treasure trove.

Now, if I really had some evil intentions, there was no telling what kind of havoc I could have created in the restricted storage area. I'd never been back there before, and information about it was limited to only a few minds in the University. The room, about the size of an average two car garage, had enough chemical compounds and hazardous materials to poison the entire water supply, burn a hole a third of the way into the core of the Earth or make an explosion that could level seven city blocks.

Naturally, I wasn't interested in any of those things. I had come with one mission in mind. But, like a thief who has suddenly stumbled upon a cave containing more treasures than he could possibly carry out, I froze. It was just so beautiful.

Well, actually the room was very dark and drab. Beakers, carefully balanced tubes, boxes and a plain metal floor. But if you read the labels on the tubes and boxes you would appreciate the beauty.

Propylthiophenethylamines, C13H21NO2s, methyltryptamine, unbonded carbon dioxyl groups with numerous dispositions, Moclebemide, 3-Benzodioxoles, 5-Benzodioxoles, dimethoyls of every possible variation.

On second thought, I suppose that it was a sight that only those with special aesthetic senses (and several years of intense chemistry) would find beautiful. But I was in heaven. The kinds of compounds I could form, the potency of the creations, the secrets and wonders of the human mind that could be unlocked with these keys!

_Snap out of it Wufei!_ I had to pinch myself. No, not literally, I couldn't risk making even the slightest tear in my gloves or coat with the materials I needed to handle. I searched the room quickly, trying to find which compounds wouldn't be missed too much. I selected some-

Oh, why would I bother telling you their chemical names? It's not like you would know enough to appreciate it... To keep it basic, I got enough chemicals to make the most ridiculously strong Ecstasy the world had ever seen. Simple enough for you? I tucked them into the box, along with the Acrylonitrile, and hurried out. I double checked to make sure I had the keycard.

"Why were you back there?" A voice nearly made me drop the container.

"Jesus, Joulan!" I gasped.

The tall, young Indian scientist was glowering at me dubiously. "I asked what you were up to back there." Joulan Kent was always very serious and polite. He had a British accent from being raised in Britain, and everything about him, from his calm dark eyes to his carefully parted black hair, made him look austere and professional beyond his years. At the same time, he was a very nice guy, always treating fellow labbies to lunch or trying to organize department dinners.

"I had to get some materials for Professor Tsubarov, for the hydrogen sulphide solutions." I tried to act natural, but Joulan's hard stare made me nervous. If he asked to see the contents of the box...

"That dog Tsubarov!" Joulan surprised me by smiling and wagging his finger. "Rushing off to the john and leaving a newcomer to do his work! And he's always grumbling about rules and such."

"Y-yeah, that's pretty, um, pretty bad of him, I guess." I swallowed the lump in my throat. A minute ago this young man had scared me stiff, now he was going on like we were old friends. I cast a wary glance around the lab. I needed to hurry and hide my precious acquisition before more attention was drawn.

"Fretting about getting burned for chatting on the job?" Joulan was perceptive. I was going to have to be careful around him. "If the Professor or Mr. Trent aren't around, you aren't likely to get scolded for taking a break or two, you know?" Joulan smiled.

"Mr. Trent?" I asked. The name seemed familiar, but I'd never met anyone who went by that.

"Trent Clark," Joulan said. "Sort of a scary one he is. Very serious and secretive, I guess you could say he's Tsubarov's protégé. Or, rather, until you came on the scene he was. Believe he's finishing up an experiment in China right now on-"

"Wait, wait," I was getting side-tracked, but this struck me as being important.

Trent Clark's name was familiar to me because I'd seen it at the bottom of almost every paper and dissertation Tsubarov had written in the last fifteen years. I'd also read an article in Frontier Science completely trashing Clark's first solo study. Something about interesting to science fiction nerds, but completely immoral and therefore un-fundable in reality.

"I have no intention of being Tsubarov's protégé," I began. "I just-"

"Well, you seem like a decent chap," Joulan cut me off, still smiling amiably. "Didn't get the feeling you were like those two. But, if you're really a normal bloke like the rest of us, then how about joining us for a pint or two one of these weekends?" The man had never said more than two words to me, now he was asking me to drink with him.

"Sure." I didn't know what else to say, I needed to get Joulan out of my hair.

"We usually go to Murphy's; they've actually got decent English ale, none of that Budweiser crap," Joulan informed me. "And afterwards, if we're, what do you call it? "Crunked"? If we're 'crunked' enough we sometimes go out to Tricksee's to dance."

"Tricksee's?" I repeated. That was a gay club.

"I understand if it's not your scene." Joulan leaned closer, a little too close for my comfort. He was a handsome man, but, but he was a _man_! "But it couldn't hurt to let that hair of yours down for a night or two, right mate?"

Joulan winked, smirking. He was hitting on me. Another man was trying to pick me up. For god's sake, I was married! Not that Meiran and I had had coitus more than once. That had been an embarrassing 'once' too...

"Think about it," Joulan winked at me again and walked off.

I stood there, shocked. I watched Vino smile as Joulan came back to his work station. The two whispered, heads very close together. Joulan jerked a thumb back in my direction. Vino turned and caught me looking at them. His face turned a little blush, but he smiled at me all the same. Those two were always standing awfully close to each other...

I suddenly remembered my pyroxide solutions, probably ruined by now. Shit! I rushed off, putting the material for the experiment on the floor near the metal counter. When nobody was looking, I nudged the box under the station's base with my foot, just out of sight.

I stayed late, feigning a struggle over the right balance in my pyroxide solutions (the delay had thrown the pH slightly off). With the lab almost deserted, it was easy to smuggle out the cache of chemicals and store them in my locker. At night I returned home with my bounty. Meiran was out at the movies, and so I unabashedly brought the materials down into the sub-basement below our apartment that I had transformed into my secret laboratory. Only with the greatest self restraint did I not begin tinkering with them that night.

Instead, I skipped the next two days of classes, and was rewarded with a very powerful batch of Ecstasy and an ample remainder of several substances for future use.

-end Wufei's POV

-end "Bad Habits - Wufei's - Stealing from the Olde Alma Mater"

Part B in "Steps Down an Unlit Path", Page V in Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next: "Shadows in Darkness"

ID Notes:

Trent Clark is a pretty important, although minor, character in Gundam Wing. He was the one assigned to do research and experiments on the Zero System when OZ captured the Wing Zero. He was always a sorta 'mad scientist' type, and eventually went insane from the Zero System. He will play the role of Tsubarov's estranged protégée, and will be in a somewhat similar role here as he was in the series.

Vino Dupre is a minor character in Gundam SEED Destiny. He is one of the mechanics on the Minerva Battleship, always a sorta easy-going, cheerful guy. He is friends and partners with:

Joulan Kent. Joulan is a fellow mechanic in SEED Destiny. No, he is actually not Indian nor does he speak with any kind of accent in the series. I just wanted to spice up his character. He is very formal at first sight but is actually very kind and friendly in one-on-one interactions.

The two above are both pretty cute, and I couldn't help pairing them together, since they're so close in the tv show. A threesome with Wufei? We'll see.

Notes: Again, almost all of that science stuff is babble. However, all of those chemicals I listed in the Restricted Storage room are components in, or slightly altered forms of, active chemical compounds that give numerous drugs their effect on humans. So I'm not totally full of shit all the time when it comes to that science stuff. Erowid is your friend if you want to find out more.


	38. VC: Shadows in Darkness

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Page V: "Steps Down an Unlit Path"

Part C of Page V

"Shadows in Darkness"

Present tense, 3rd person narration

It is the middle of the night, a Wednesday night. The only things awake are those to be avoided.

"Who the hell are you? Where's Captain Ramius?"

The man is impolite, but most government officials are. He has a tall, old fashioned, black hat, the kind with the wide brim, the darkest of black. His spectacles reflect the headlights from the sedan facing him, but his wide face is an obvious sneer. He has a black tie, a black suit, and a black overcoat. His wide frame is accented by his short stature, but he stands like a giant, chest broad with the kind of ego that most 'accomplished' men in his field have.

"Unfortunately, Captain Ramius won't be arriving for some time," another man, this one bathed totally in shadow, speaks. He is standing next to the passenger side of the sedan. "However, you aren't going to be working for her, Inspector Acht."

"You're not from Intelligence, are you?" Inspector Acht asks, buying time. He did not expect to meet an unknown third party at his rendezvous in Metro City. Such was the point of the forged documents to cover his entry into the city. "Are you one of those meddlers from Oversight? Or maybe a state goon?"

"I am not with the government," the shadowed man says. "However, I can assure you that the ones who assigned you to this investigation have placed you under my command."

"What kind of shit is this?" Acht barks. He makes a motion towards his pockets, either to draw a weapon or signal for backup, but the echoing click of a machine gun safety being removed stops him cold. There is more than one man lurking in the unfinished construction site's shadows.

"I understand your frustration, Inspector Acht." The 'man of honor' is just that, one who, despite no noble heritage or sophisticated upbringing, carries himself with the utmost dignity. "But you see, the nature of your investigation is such that even you had to be unaware of your true assignment until you were away from the Capital."

"My true assignment?" Acht can't help but show the curiosity in his voice. He has always been the kind that seeks for the highest, most rewarding jobs. That is why the organization picked him as its pawn. "Will that assignment be confirmed by headquarters?"

"No. No, it will never be confirmed," the hidden figure answers truthfully. Lying to an ally, even if just a lowly pawn, is a stain on such a reputation as his. "However, you will be guaranteed a promotion and triple your annual salary if you complete this assignment."

"Is that so?" Acht no longer seems to care about the mysterious identity of his employers. If ambition does not blind, it at least narrows the eyes of the ambitious so that they can only behold the glittering prize before them. The same is true in horse racing. "Then this operation is dark?"

"Yes," the man of honor answers. It is the darkest of operations. "And we will also take the trouble of drafting your regular reports, to let you focus on your investigation of the Metro City police force."

"The Metro City police?" Acht repeats. "Investigating them was the assignment I received at the Capital. How is this any different?"

"While you must appear to investigate the other precincts so as not to be discovered, your real investigation concerns only one, the 106th Precinct."

"That is Zechs Merquise's precinct." Acht has read up on the briefings. "That lapdog of Kushrenada's can't possibly be connected to any foreign enemy cell."

"Merquise may cause you some pains, but you will have our support from the inside," the furtive shadow promises. "It should not be too hard for you to retrieve what has been lost."

"Retrieve?" Acht spits the word out with audible disdain at the idea. It is far too similar to the games of dogs. But, as much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, that is exactly what Inspector Acht is, a beast playing fetch.

"Yes." The man in the shadows makes some kind of signal. The driver, identity hidden against the glare of the headlights, begins to approach Acht. "Recently the 106th Precinct got their hands on something very precious, very important to the people who gave you this assignment. If you can retrieve it before they find out what it is, you will receive the payment and promotion I explained earlier."

The approaching man is carrying a suitcase. He sets it down ten feet away from Acht and opens it. The faces on the bills inside are unreadable, but there are many of them. Also, on top of the money lies a black object. Acht squints his eyes, trying to see what it is.

"And, if you fail, you will be terminated," the man of honor promises. A gun is on top of the neatly folded, carefully laundered currency. "Do you understand?"

"Who do I make my reports to?" Acht tries hard not to sound scared. He tries to tell himself that the very real prospect of his death does not frighten him. He is a brave man, a brave man, a brave man...

"Do you understand and accept?" the hidden man asks again.

Acht nods. His breath will not come to swear the oath that might bring his demise.

"Take me over to him," the man in shadow commands.

He sits down hastily, his arms no longer able to hold himself up against the sedan. He must confirm this man's resolve with his own eyes. The driver returns to his side. The squeaks of a wheelchair seem to echo like pained, drawn out cries on the concrete, like the shovel scrapes the coffin inside a tomb.

Slowly the pair approaches. Acht still cannot make out their identities. They pass the briefcase, still open on the floor, on the spot where tomorrow construction workers will drill two stories into the crust of the earth to place gigantic steel girders. They are now only a stride away from Acht. The driver's silver hair catches the light.

The man in the chair is now directly in front of Acht, so close that Acht cannot take a step without bumping into the frail legs of the monster. Despite the darkness, Acht sees and identifies the man of honor. He immediately forgets ever seeing such a man in such a place on that night. It was far too dark to say who exactly that man was...

The unidentifiable man grips the sides of his chair, pushing with all his might to raise himself out of it. The driver does not make an offer to help; for it would be insulting. Struggling, struggling, the dark man pulls himself up, wills his dying legs with the same ruthless authority that has paralyzed so many with fear. He draws himself up, just barely higher than Acht, but a giant in the sights of the spectacled inspector. He places his hands heavily on Acht's shoulders, staring into his eyes.

"Will you swear, on everything you hold dear, to accept this undertaking?" he asks.

Acht knows he must say yes. There is no going back now. But it cannot be a thing entered into out of fear. Should he respond out of fear, or with any deceitful intention in his tone, easily perceptible to this man whose power reaches far beyond his cloak of shadow, he will also be killed. He must be sincere and firm in his reply.

"I swear," Acht says.

And then, in the eyes of the demon staring him down, Acht sees something he would have never expected from one of the most wicked men alive: kindness. It is visible and genuine kindness. There is a bond between the two men now, a trust that must never be broken. The warmth of empathy, sympathy, of all the emotions shared between a friend seem to emanate from the dark man's hands, starting at the shoulders they are placed on, and moving through every depth of the inspector's body.

The man leans forward suddenly, hands clasping Acht firmly by the side of his pudgy face, holding himself up by the flabby skin of his cheeks. Instinctively, Acht tries to wriggle away; but before he can, it has been done. The man has kissed him full on the lips, a kiss with no love, no remorse, yet full of emotion. Time seems to freeze; Acht feels the man's lips on his forever.

Then the old man pulls back, sitting down heavily in his wheelchair. The driver turns him around and begins to wheel him away. The slight squeaking noise competes with the beating of his heart to be heard in the black night. A chill runs down Acht's spine. The warmth is gone. Now there is only dread.

"You will find the rest of your information in the envelope at the bottom of the suitcase," the man informs him. "It also tells you where you are to drop off your written reports, a mailbox in Metropolis Heights, and who to call if you are ever in need."

The man pulls himself into the sedan. The driver folds up the chair. The hidden man with the machine gun has retreated back into some corner of Hell. The sedan doors close, clunking heavily.

The headlights turn, the reverse lights come on. The car is gone.

Inspector Acht shivers again in the cold. He picks up the briefcase with shaking hands.

-end "Shadows in Darkness", Part C of Page V in

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Next: "Superior to even Heero Yuy"

Next part is going to have a lot of action. Explosions, guns, knives. And Stellar Louisser from Gundam Seed Destiny (that crazy psycho bitch).

ID Notes:

Inspector Acht is a minor character from Gundam Wing. He is sent by Romafeller to investigate Zechs (wonder why I picked him for this role?) & ensure the destruction of the Wing Gundam that Zechs is trying to rebuild.

Captain Murrue Ramius is a major character in Gundam SEED. She is the female commander of the EAF's ArchAngel battleship. She will appear later, so for now just now she's connected to the Zabi investigation into the Order.

The driver is a character you already know. Good luck figuring out who )

Yes, that was the "kiss of death". No, this man is not the same person as the goon from "The Crow" Part G.


	39. VD: Superior to even Heero Yuy

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

How these 4 's' words are intertwined

By Masamune Reforged

WhenShootingStarsFalldotcom

Warnings: Yaoi (tons of pairings, but mostly 1x2, 3x4 and implied former 13x6. Lemons amuck.), cursing, drug use, violence, angst, insanity, cameos, AU, lunacy, racism. All the bad shit you'd expect in real life.

Author's Note - I use some terminology in this chapter that not everyone might be familiar with. This is when Heero refers to something as being at "twelve o'clock", "10:30", or any similar o'clock orientation. "10:30" and other o'clock numbers are pilot code for enemy positions, based on where the pilot is facing. So "12:00" is directly in front, "6:00" directly behind, "10:30" a bit off to the left. I thought Heero's mental process might involve some efficient, mechanical way of aiming like this. It's also a lot easier than writing the enemy's position every second. Also, remember that every time Heero changes directions, the enemy's orientation changes also.

Page V: Steps Down an Unlit Path

Part D – Superior to even Heero Yuy

Heero's POV

The hardest part, I thought to myself, would be creating the RDX slurry.

Living in the ventilation shafts, sleeping in sewage pipes, planting C4 in critical locations within the 81st International Bank over the course of five days was a 'cake-walk' compared to making the RDX slurry. That would be the hardest part of the mission, or so I had told myself...

The mixture for this critical component is very hard to stabilize, and, as such, I'd always enjoyed the thrill and risk of making it myself. The cyclonite slurry, to sum it up roughly, is created by reacting highly concentrated nitric acid on hexamine. Combine the RDX slurry with a plasticizer and binder compound (best to dissolve the binder compound in a solvent first) and distill. Creating the RDX slurry is the hardest part, as nitric acids in high concentration are a little volatile.

The RDX slurry was what killed all but one of the eighteen people who died yesterday night at the 81st International Bank on 3rd Avenue in Gotham. It accounted for 91 of my C-4 plastic explosives, and one mistake mixing it would have ended my life in a flash. Adding the compounds with an even hand, my heart would beat wildly at that thought. I, and only I, was master of my own fate as I stared down at the brown and grey mixture. I felt invincible, my head soaring and heart pumping, simply from knowing one error could blow me into a hundred tiny pieces. Obviously I use no tagger chemicals for tracing.

C-4, after being dried and filtered, looks and feels like white modeling clay. The difference between the two is that C-4 can destroy the thickest steel pillars (I use 9.7 pounds of C-4 for steel beams that are 8 square inches thick) when wrapped and surrounded by sandbags or other buffers, in order to direct the force of the explosion inwards.

On March 18th, at 3:30 in the morning, the explosions were not covered with sandbags or arranged in any demolition setup. I wanted to kill as many security personnel as possible, not destroy the building I needed to infiltrate. As usual, I used a remote detonator, the only reliable way of forcing C-4 to explode. (It can be thrown into fire, run over by a car or shot with a bullet and still not explode, unless surrounded by high temperatures, and those are very extreme temperatures). The only other way to detonate them would be blasting caps, which I despise.

So I pushed a red button and seventeen people died. The night sky lit up from the mesmerizing sacrificial flame. Deafening roars of eruption drowned out surprised shouts. There was a jaw-clenching screech as concrete, steel, and plastic were ripped apart and sent flying into the moonlit night. Plumes of gray and black smoke spiraled up into the clear sky. The sprinkler system turned itself on. Alarms began buzzing and ringing, warning sirens and alerts popping up, far too late.

I skipped several feet to my left as the revolving doors of the 81st International Bank flew out onto the streets of 3rd Avenue behind me.

The marble steps were lodged in nearby buildings and cars.

I checked my watch. 3:30 AM and 05 seconds.

Move out.

-----

Nobody coming out of the entrance. Run to the southeast corner. Lean against the stone pillar, comfortably warm. Survey the inside. Nobody moving? No, but lots of smoke. That's fine. If I can't see them through that smoke they can't see me either. But stay low and stick to the shadows.

The metal detector was melted into a heap of slag.

The security guards were in bits and pieces.

All of the smoke was billowing out the two story hole in the front entrance, right into my face.

Breathe through the oxygen mask. Squint to see if anyone is still alive. Be careful not to stumble over the steaming rubble and debris. Keep heading towards the vault.

I had a heavy backpack on. It had grenades, ammo, a KeyHack for any security systems still intact, a crowbar and the BeamSabre5000. The last was a battery operated device that would emit a small surgical laser, less than a foot long, and could melt through just about anything.

Amidst some rubble on the north side of the lobby, a survivor was panting and gasping as he fought to claw his way from under pieces of the ceiling. "H-hey! Help me!" the man cried out. A dark blotch of blood covered most of his face. A gnarled, three-fingered hand twitched. His legs were either stuck under the rubble or completely gone. It was hard to make sense of the black and red gore that was his lower body.

"Please, oh God, please, help me!" he begged.

Keep both eyes open, arm straight.

**Bang**.

I shot him in the head.

His hand dropped. His head fell to his chest, or at least what was left of it.

It was very nice of me to do that.

I scanned the building for remaining signs of life. I was in the center of the lobby.

Then, from above, "Are you one of those scary people?"

Swivel around. Wipe that water from the sprinklers off for better vision. Scan the balcony overlooking the ground floor. Smoke hasn't cleared there yet, unable to locate the voice. It sounded like a girl's... but...

"Are you? Are you a scary person who hurts people?" came the girl's voice again. What is a girl doing here? "Do you?"

Sounds calm... very calm. Drugged? Who would ask such a question?

Hurt people? Yes. Enjoy it? Also a yes.

The smoke slowly cleared. A figure was peering down on me. She was a young, blonde girl in a sparkling blue dress. She didn't have a cut or smudge on her. I shook my head. She was no older than I, probably younger. I stopped walking and my memories stabbed at me.

Don't think about that girl. That wasn't your fault. There's nothing you can do now anyway...

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here now," I said. It really gave me no pleasure at all, killing someone as young and innocent as that. They weren't old enough to properly know fear. They couldn't hold out long enough for me to enjoy the torture. And...

"Neo says you're a scary man who wants to hurt Stellar," the girl said. I tried to ignore her, walking again towards the vault. The calamity of the explosion had obviously sent her into shock. "Would you hurt Stellar?" she asked.

I stopped. I looked up at her. She was completely unfazed, almost smiling. There was something out of place with this. There was something going on.

"Someone told you I'd be coming here?" I tried asking. I didn't have time to babysit, but I wasn't about to walk further into a trap. "Who is this Neo?"

"Neo takes care of Stellar." The girl, 'Stellar', smiled wide. "Neo is really great. He would never let anyone hurt Stellar. But-" Here the girl's face changed radically. Her face turned ashen and her large, green eyes seemed to be turbulent with terror. "But Neo said bad people might come here, people that would hurt Stellar, that would hurt Neo."

"Listen, girl." I shook my head, rummaging through my bag for the BeamSabre5000. The vault was nearby and I had to get started. This girl was obviously insane, shocked from the blast or something. She certainly wasn't any threat. "I don't know what you're talking about, and I really don't care." I pulled out the kit and was about to pass directly under the balcony. "So just get out of here so I don't have to kill you too-"

"_NOOO!!!_"

The scream made me look up. A glint of silver caught my eye. ! The hell?

I jumped back, dropping the BeamSabre kit and barely evading the throwing knife.

Thwack. It cracked the marble floor, sticking out.

Craning my neck, I raised my gun at her. I had to take a few steps back to keep a good bead on the target.

"K...kill Stellar?" she whimpered like a kicked dog. Her hands were tearing at her blonde hair. Her face was twisted in pain, teeth grinding, breath quick. "Kill... Kill Stellar?"

What was going on? She just threw a knife an inch into a marble floor! She'd almost killed me!

"That's right." I decided to give her one final warning. "If I have to, I'd kill anyone."

The girl called Stellar stood up ramrod straight and opened her mouth to reply. I could see her lips moving as she whispered to herself, fists balled, body shaking, but I couldn't hear. She hunched forward, hugging her shoulders, and now I could make out the sound of her wavering voice. But, again, I was too far away to make out the words. I had to get to the vault. If she was going to distract me, she had to die.

"_**I'll make them disappear!**_**"** she screamed, looking down at me with alarming features. Her eyes were merciless and tear stained. Her mouth was clenched and twisted. I'd never seen such an extreme contrast of emotions on an enemy's face before. It made me hesitate a moment.

"_AAAAAAAHH!!!_"

And in that moment Stellar let out a terrific battle cry. She grasped the hand rail of the balcony, a full seven meters above the marble floor, and threw herself over the edge. From that height there were two possibilities. Either she would break her legs, or she would have to execute a forward tuck roll. I only needed to prepare for one of them. I lowered my arm angle, aiming straight ahead to where she would land. While she was still in the roll, if she even knew how, I would blow her head off. The above thought process took less than two seconds, about fifteen seconds less than what it takes to explain.

**Bang**. I pulled the trigger. It would be the Nth 1 life I'd taken, nothing special.

But...

But this one was special. Stellar was special because she didn't die.

No, I did not miss. My shot was right on the mark. But Stellar didn't tuck-roll, and her legs didn't break on the floor. She landed on her feet, twenty-three feet below where she'd jumped, and she hit the ground running. The bullet in her leg? Might as well not have been there. I could hardly react, hardly convince myself that what I was seeing was actually happening. But there she was, still breathing, still on her feet, and she started to come right at me. But, not before she grabbed the throwing knife out of the floor, plucking it right out of the floor as easily as you pull a needle from the pin cushion, and she threw it at me as fast as lightning.

Things got a little complicated from there. It was all over in about two minutes, but by my conversion rate that would take about seventeen minutes to explain. So, for efficiency's sake, I'll just give you the highlights from what I saw.

Knife! Dodge to the right! Why's she not dead?

Stellar: "AAAAH!"

She's coming. She's coming! The bullet hit her in the leg, how is she running? Hn. Target from twelve o'clock, moving. Both hands on the gun. Aim for the heart. Click, **bang**.

She dodged it? She dodged a bullet? Try again! Closer now. Click, **bang**. She ducked behind that pillar, 10:30. Take cover yourself!

Silence, silence. Peek from behind the pillar providing cover. No movement. Had I hit her after all? No. Maybe the injury to her leg?

I peek out from behind the pillar. Blue material, her dress. Seems to be movin-

Clappa-clappa-clappa-clappa. I pull my head back. The stone on the pillar where my head had been is blown away, white plaster chipping. Clappa-clappa-clappa. Uzi. Fuck! Chipped plaster gets in my eye. Blink. Clappa-clappa-clappa-clappa.

Stellar: "Scary things... I'll make them disappear!"

Blink, blink. Clappa-clappa-clappa. The Uzi report echoes louder. The rate of bullets hitting the pillar increases. The enemy is advancing. Blink, blink. Get that shit out of your eye already!

"_I'll make them DISAPPEAR!_"

Clappa-clappa-clappa. Wait for it. Clappa-clappa. Wait. Clappa-clappa-chick.

Out of bullets.

I lunge out from the cover. Golden hair, blue dress. Reloading, a sitting duck. 10 o'clock. Blink. Vision still blurred.

Bang, bang, bang. I fire off three rounds.

"Ugh!" Audible grunt. Hit confirmed.

I stop, bracing on a knee. The target does not fall.

Keep your gun trained on her, but don't waste any more ammunition. Blink-blink. Finally! Vision clear.

Stellar is still standing. She glares. "You shot me."

Blood on the front of her dress, at least one bullet in the torso.

She does not fall.

Target has been shot in the chest at least once. She does not fall. Why?

From the folds of her blue and blood-spattered dress comes another, small, jagged knife.

Breathing hard, she looked at the blade, then up at me. I swore no woman had ever struck fear into my heart the way that crazy bitch with a Shabak Para Micro Uzi submachine gun did at that moment.

Blue dress, red blood, white skin, blonde hair, drugged-up monster.

I told myself that this must be some kind of bad dream. Or I wanted to, but-

KNIFE!

Jump back, right. Gun arm out-

Striking right hand, blade flaring out. A metallic clang, my gun clattering to the floor distantly as I weaved right and jumped backwards, up onto pieces of rubble from damage to the roof and second floor of the 81st International Bank. Another blur of blue, blonde, and silver. The knife cuts downward an inch in front of my chin.

Her arm ripped back upwards towards my face and I couldn't dodge. I braced and thrust my arms down on top of the hand gripping the blade, blocking the stab. The girl began to growl, bloodthirsty blue eyes fastened on my face.

I struggled with everything I had to keep the point of the knife away from my body. The girl bared her teeth and continued inching the knife towards my throat. I tried to push her arms down and away, but they were like steel. She was too strong for me. In strength, she would win. In a moment, she would drive it clear through my throat.

I folded my elbows into my shoulders, twisted my head sidewise, tucked into a ball and simultaneously pulled my arms back with her pushing while trying to slide myself under her shoulder, effectively flipping her. A sliver of blood ran down the side of my face as the knife grazed me.

Roll forward, spring to your feet. Now run!

I ran away from a foe for the first time that I could remember. I ran as hard as I could, trying to get back to my equipment bag. I didn't feel any shame or anger, only wonder, some confusion, and an alien, yet primitive fear for my life.

Three steps from the pillar where my bag lay, a white hot pain shot up in my leg. I cried out and tripped, landing heavily on the tile. Turning around, I saw the dagger sticking out from my left calf and a blur of white, blonde and blue racing towards me at a furious speed.

I pulled out the knife. Any more to the left and it would have severed an artery. The insane girl was closing fast. I scampered behind the pillar, grabbed my bag, and pulled out the first item my hand closed around.

-----

"DIE!" Whipping around the corner came the girl, Stellar.

One.

I threw my bag at her. She batted to the side easily. The bag fell behind her and to her right, only two feet away from her.

Two.

I made no effort to attack her, nor to run or even defend myself; and in turn she let the gap remain between us. For a second we stayed that way.

Three.

"You beat me," I told her.

She stared at me in confusion, then made a hissing noise and went to take a step forward.

Four.

"Wait! I-I have a gift for you," I said, allowing a confident smile to slip onto my face.

I held out my bloodied left hand, closed tightly.

Five.

There was a pause.

"A gift?"

Six.

"A gift for Stellar?" the girl asked.

"Yes, a special gift just for you." I took a slow step backwards.

Seven.

"Do you want to know what it is?" I asked, glancing over at the end of the pillar that I could almost reach out and touch with my right hand.

Eight.

Pillars in the main hall of the 81st International Bank are concrete around steel girders that are about 4.5 square inches thick.

Nine.

There was no doubt that the pillar was strong enough. I couldn't doubt.

"Here." I tossed the pin at the girl's feet. Then I turned and dove.

Ten!

Light, fire, deafening roar. Grenade.

And of course I was right. The pillar held.

-end "Superior to even Heero Yuy"

Part D in Page V of

Sex, Substances, Sin, Salvation

Next - Progress Report - Director Project Subject - Shinn Asuka

The next one is very short, so I should be able to do two chapters for next week.

ID Note:

Stellar Louisser is a main character from Gundam SEED Destiny. Here, like there, she is the subject of several biochemical experiments, resulting in her being unnaturally strong and deadly, but also mentally retarded. She has a child like personality, but becomes a desperate berserker in battle. The bitch is bona-fide crazy.

Notes:

The 81st International Bank is named after the number of Stellar's unit, the 81st Independent.

You better believe that stuff about explosives is real.

The end of this scene is slightly adapted from a scene in Cowboy Bebop. You'll know the one if you've seen it. Essentially, Heero grabs the first thing in his bag, which happens to be a grenade. He pulls the pin, but Stellar comes around the corner a second later. He throws the bag with the live grenade in it, and she deflects it. It falls near her. Knowing it's a ten second delay on the grenade, Heero buys time with his "gift ruse". Then, just before the grenade in the bag explodes, he distracts Stellar by throwing the pin. By diving behind the pillar just before the explosion, Heero manages to survive. Yeah, so if you were wondering what happened there at the end, that's it, in a nutshell. I figured Heero wouldn't have time to explain, and I actually don't think he would if he did have the time.

Thank you very much to ZaKai for her help. This was one of the hardest chapters for me to write.


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